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ascertain  Feast 

Soliia  Solano 


G.P. Putnam’s  Sons 

N^wYork  &  London 
JDjz  Knickerbocker  Press 


# 


Copyright,  1924 
by 

Solita  Solano 


First  printing,  August,  1924 
Second  printing,  September,  1924 


1  «  • 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


OCT  II  1924 


To 

BASTIAN 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

I 

Miss  Elliot's  chair  scraped  the  concrete  floor. 
“Is  that  all,  Mr.  Geer?” 

Daniel  blinked  at  the  window  and  turned.  “No.” 
She  must  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  away.  Probably  has 
an  engagement  for  dinner.  Cold  cream,  rouge  and  a 
hot  iron  waiting  at  home.  He  looked  at  her  sleek 
brown  head,  bent  again  over  her  book,  a  poised 
pencil  waiting.  “What  was  the  last  paragraph, 
please  ?” 

Without  raising  her  eyes  she  translated  her  hiero¬ 
glyphs  tonelessly,  challengingly :  “  ‘While  I  am  im¬ 
pressed  with  your  work,  it  is  impossible  to  consider 
you  at  present  as  our  own  Mr.  Warren’s  contract 
has  a  year  more  to  run  and  will  be  renewed  if  he 
wishes.’  ”  She  waited  again,  her  pencil  quivering. 

Daniel  looked  at  her  mouth.  Too  bad  she  isn’t 
pretty.  Anyway  I  don’t  like  them  when  they  draw 
in  their  mouths  that  way.  Prunes  and  prisms  char¬ 
acter.  Like  that  girl  in  Newark  who  kept  smiling 
and  smiling  and  then  squealed,  “Oh,  don’t,  Mr. 


3 


4 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Geer !”  Now  she’s  frowning  because  I  don’t  finish. 
“If  you  are  in  the  city,  however,  drop  in  and  we  will 
talk.  Very  truly  yours.  I  think  that  covers  it. 
Thank  you,  Miss  Elliot.” 

He  turned  back  to  his  desk.  Slapping  her  note¬ 
book  together  and  scraping  her  chair.  How  uncivil 
she  is!  Always  on  the  defensive.  She  needn’t  act 
that  way  for  my  benefit.  Her  advances  and  retreats 
don’t  interest  me.  If  she  were  prettier  I’d  take  her 
out.  ...  Feet  at  the  door.  Someone  to  annoy  me. 

“Mr.  Edmunds  to  see  you,  Mr.  Geer.” 

Daniel  looked  up  at  the  youngest  office  boy,  too 
small  for  his  coat,  and  took  the  afternoon  papers  he 
held  out.  “Does  he  know  I’m  here?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Send  him  in.  And  wash  your  hands.”  He 
pushed  away  his  clippings,  and  glanced  at  the  head¬ 
lines.  Black  stupefying  annunciations.  Domestic 
tragedies,  the  pinchbeck  hopes  of  governments,  in¬ 
stitutional  failures,  information  from  eavesdrop¬ 
pers,  the  crambe  repetita  of  court  decisions,  pitfalls 
from  press-agents,  the  vagaries  of  Jupiter  Pluvius 
and  Old  Sol  and  the  uncovering  of  bones  under 
ancient  dolmens.  All  focused  by  the  lickerish  presses 
and  presented  every  hour  as  a  symptom  of  civiliza¬ 
tion. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette.  Must  be  Bob’s  day  off. 
I  always  took  Thursday  and  he  had  Friday.  Now 
I’m  here  and  he’s  still  stuck  back  there.  He’ll  always 
be  an  assistant.  Or  go  on  the  copy  desk.  Most  of 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


5 


them  end  that  way,  poor  old  hacks,  sharpening  pen¬ 
cils,  packing  tobacco  into  their  pipes,  shades  on 
their  eyes.  “I  think  this  is  a  first  page  story,  sir.” 
“Yes,  you  would  think  that.  Cut  it  to  two  sticks — 
page  five.”  The  others  snicker  at  this  humiliation. 
Their  turn  next.  Bob’s  probably  hoping  I’ll  give 
him  something  here.  Not  much.  He’d  be  too 
familiar.  Calling  me  Dan  and  walking  in  here  when¬ 
ever  he  felt  like  it. 

“Hello,  Dan!” 

Daniel  turned  in  his  chair.  “Come  on  in.  How’s 
everything  in  Jersey?  Paper  still  coming  out?” 

Edmunds  crossed  the  room  and  they  shook  hands. 

“Sure.  Do  you  think  we’ve  closed  up  because 
you  left?  How  do  you  figure  that  out?”  He  sat 
down  and  took  a  cigarette  from  Daniel’s  box. 
“Pretty  soft  here,  Dan.  You’re  in  luck.  Some 
difference  between  the  island  of  Manhattan  and  the 
village  of  Newark,  eh?  Boys  all  sent  regards.” 

“Thanks.  Your  day  off,  isn’t  it?  Do  you  want 
to  have  dinner  with  me?  Say  a  plank  steak  at 
Whyte’s.  I  might  take  an  extra  hour  tonight.” 

Edmunds  leaned  back  and  laughed,  the  smoke  in¬ 
dicating  each  outward  breath.  “What’s  struck 
you?”  he  said.  “Has  New  York  made  you  loosen 
up  ?  But,  of  course,  you’re  making  big  money  now.” 

Daniel  reddened.  “I’ve  always  had  responsibili¬ 
ties,”  he  said.  “My  parents - ” 

“They  haven’t  cost  you  much,”  Edmunds  cut  in. 
“That  little  flat — you  all  lived  there  on  $25  a  week. 


6 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Oh,  well,  once  in  a  hundred  years  comes  along  a 
newspaper  man  like  you.  The  rest  of  us  haven’t  a 
nickel  the  Monday  after  payday.  More  power  to 
you.”  He  lifted  himself  from  the  chair  and  walked 
to  the  window. 

Daniel  inhaled  deeply  and  crushed  the  fire  from 
his  cigarette.  Crude,  crude.  No  manners,  no  sense. 
Especially  about  the  future.  He’ll  never  get  any¬ 
where  with  those  spendthrift  ideas.  The  artistic 
temperament  without  any  art.  Despising  the  busi¬ 
ness  man  but  living  from  him.  Thinking  it  a  dis¬ 
grace  to  the  cult  to  provide  for  the  future  but  always 
coming  around  with,  “Could  you  let  me  have  ten 
dollars  till  next  week  ?”  Sometimes  they  save  on  the 
sly — like  Summers.  Caught  with  a  check  book. 
Blushing  and  denying  it  was  his  with  the  office 
howling  him  down  for  a  tightwad. 

“What  about  that  steak,  Bob?”  If  I  don’t  ask 
him  again  he’ll  think  I’m  offended.  Five  dollars 
ought  to  do  it.  Maybe  six.  I  haven’t  spent  much 
this  week.  I  can  afford  it. 

“I  can’t  tonight — I  brought  Effie  along,”  said 
Edmunds.  “Say,  where  do  you  live  now?” 

“Uptown.  I  found  a  small  apartment.” 

“You  going  to  bring  the  old  folks  over?” 

Daniel  frowned  and  blinked  at  the  smoke  from 
his  cigarette.  “They’re  better  off  where  they  are. 
They  didn’t  want  to  come  anyway.” 

“You’ll  be  lonesome.” 

“No  time  for  that.  I’m  here  every  night  till  all 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


7 

hours.  Had  to  learn  the  plant  from  top  to  bottom, 
you  know.” 

Edmunds  nodded  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

“The  powers  are  already  watching  for  the  circu¬ 
lation  to  go  up.  But  it’s  much  too  soon.  I  haven’t 
had  time  to  change  the  staff  yet,”  Daniel  went  on. 

Edmunds  did  not  comment  and  Daniel  looked  at 
his  eyes,  set  in  rims  of  fat.  Poor  Bob !  He  sees  my 
great  active  future  while  he  stays  in  the  old  rut. 
Well,  that’s  life.  Some  of  us  live  purposelessly — 
ex  commodo — weaving  peacefully  in  our  cages. 
Others  are  driven  on  by  a  mysterious  energy  be¬ 
gotten,  they  say  now,  by  our  glands.  When  these 
are  very  active  they  result  in  some  marvel  of  genius 
or  great  energy — Napoleon,  Dumas,  Hadrian, 
Shakespeare,  Cicero,  Thomas  Aquinas,  Casanova, 
old  Atlas.  My  glands  secrete  enough  to  give  me  am¬ 
bition  and  vigor.  Bob’s  are  dessicated  shreds. 

“So  it’s  still  Effie.  Are  you  going  to  marry  her?” 

“I  guess  so,”  said  Edmunds,  returning  to  his 
chair.  “Might  as  well.  We’re  used  to  each  other. 
How  about  you?  Still  stalking  what’s  out  of  your 
reach?  You  never  want  what  you  can  have.  Better 
get  married.” 

“Not  I,”  said  Daniel.  “No  marriage  for  me.  No 
steady  gold  digger  in  my  pockets.  Nor  no  re¬ 
spectable  Wednesday-evening-and-Sunday-afternoon 
girl  either.  Women  want  too  much  attention.  I 
have  no  time  for  sentimental  flower-sending  and 
cooings  over  the  telephone  a  dozen  times  a  day. 


8 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


That’s  what  women  like.  They’re  swamps  of  senti¬ 
mentality.  But  when  you  get  them  to  the  point  they 
say,  ‘Oh,  don’t,  Mr.  Geer  or  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr. 
Jones!’  Different  name,  same  objection.” 

“You’ll  change  your  tune  when  you  meet  the  right 
girl,”  said  Edmunds. 

Daniel’s  mouth  curled  down  in  a  thin  line.  “Don’t 
you  think  I’ve  met  all  kinds  ?  Girl  at  my  university, 
digging  into  uncial  manuscripts  by  day  and  kissing 
me  for  a  box  of  candy  by  night.  Flirtatious  wait¬ 
resses  smelling  of  soup.  Skinny  highbrows  slipping 
in  here  like  panthers  with  poetry  or  lectures  on  Gi¬ 
otto.  Girl  reporters  in  this  office  with  small  volumes 
of  the  minor  poets  in  their  desks  and  three  sticks  of 
‘An  old  hermit  known  as  Cagey  Williams  was  found 
dead  yesterday  in  a  vacant  lot  in  Brooklyn’  on  their 
typewriters.” 

“I  saw  some  girls  out  there  while  I  was  waiting. 
Won’t  any  of  them  do?” 

“No.  One  is  too  thin,  one  is  snub-nosed  and  the 
heavy  blonde  would  want  the  city  editor’s  job  if  I 
so  much  as  glanced  at  her  exaggerated  ankles.” 

“Say,  you’re  too  darned  critical,”  Edmunds  burst 
out.  “You’re  no  oil  painting  yourself  when  it  comes 
to  looks.”  He  leaned  forward,  smiling  with  spiteful 
eyes  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  desk.  His 
malice  was  like  a  mirror  held  up  before  Daniel  to 
reflect  a  high  shiny  forehead,  pale  eyes,  persistent 
nose  and  straight  tight  mouth. 

“I  suppose  you  think  I  want  to  look  like  a  Greek 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


9 


dancer  or  an  Italian  barber,”  Daniel  said.  He  saw 
the  puffy  fingers  that  were  grasping  the  edge  of  his 
desk  in  an  envious  passing  contact  with  success. 
Then  he  smiled  in  tolerant  ascendency. 

“Don’t  forget  that  beauty  is  gone  like  a  puff  of 
wind.  The  Nile  swallowed  Antinous,  the  ephebe. 
And  as  for  tearful  Giton - ” 

“If  you’re  going  to  begin  one  of  your  lectures  on 
the  great  unknown  dead,  I’m  off,”  said  Edmunds. 
“But  first  let  a  poor  relation  gather  a  few  crumbs.” 

He  took  up  the  box  of  cigarettes  and  transferred 
four  to  his  leather  case.  Daniel  stood  up,  his  man¬ 
ner  suddenly  stiff.  Damned  cheek  talking  to  me  as 
he  does  and  taking  my  cigarettes.  He  won’t  get  in 
here  again  in  a  hurry. 

“Thanks,  old  pal,”  said  Edmunds.  “Well,  so  long. 
I’ll  give  your  regards  to  the  boys.” 

“Yes,  of  course,  the  boys.  And  Effie,  too.  Good¬ 
bye.” 

He  turned  to  his  desk  and  drew  out  his  sched¬ 
ule.  Trainer  will  be  champing  to  get  in  here.  Prob¬ 
ably  waiting  outside  for  Bob  to  go.  Five  o’clock  and 
dark  enough  for  six.  Soft  dark  like  smoke  or 
velvet.  Yielding  eastern  dark — a  permeating  black¬ 
ness  scented  with  ylang-ylang.  It  disperses  at  dawn 
for  you  to  see  the  face  beneath  the  veil,  the  pattern 
on  which  you  lie  and  the  minarets  against  the  lift¬ 
ing  mists.  Funny  how  we  still  believe  in  the  magic 
of  the  east.  Neither  the  literacy  statistics  nor  tales 
of  vermin  destroy  its  romance.  I’ll  go  see  for  my- 


IO  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

self  one  day.  Good  old  U.S.A.  currency  will  throw 
back  many  a  veil.  Istambol  is  finished — but  perhaps 
Persia - 

'‘Ready,  Mr.  Geer?  I  waited  for  your  caller  to 
&>” 

Daniel  looked  up  unsmilingly  at  Trainer’s  lined 
unshaven  face  and  nodded.  “Sit  down.  Will  you 
smoke  ?” 

“I  don’t  mind.” 

Daniel  held  out  the  cigarettes  with  studied  for¬ 
mality.  I  wish  he’d  wear  a  coat  in  the  office.  Old 
shirtsleeves  school.  I  can  guess  how  he  hates  me 
for  a  neophyte.  Also  for  my  clean  linen.  The 
fourth  day  he’s  worn  that  green  striped  shirt. 
I  suppose  it  doesn’t  touch  his  skin — only  the  arms. 
Foreigners  think  it’s  effeminate  to  wear  anything  un¬ 
derneath.  That  Irish  boy  at  the  university.  Flaherty 
— Flannigan.  From  Dublin.  His  father  said,  “Just 
let  me  catch  you  wearing  underdrawers  like  those 
damned  English  boys.  I’ll  take  them  off  you  and 
give  you  a  good  hiding.”  He  wore  his  shirttails 
tucked  about  him  the  first  semester. 

“Two  column  spread  on  Near  East  crisis  leads  the 
paper.  Box  the  two-headed  horse  at  Buffalo.  Pub¬ 
lic  always  interested  in  monstrosities.  Follow-up 
story  on  Long  Island  murder  with  one  column 
cut  of  fair  guiltless  one.  Ireland  back  on  the  first 
page  again.  The  U.P.  story.  Miss  Delmar’s  inter¬ 
view  with  Dr.  Straight  on  free  love — spicy  stuff. 
Miner  left  million  by  rich  uncle  in  New  Guinea. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


ii 


Won’t  take  it.  Socialist.  Let’s  see.  What’s  new 
in  Germany?” 

The  telephone  rang.  Daniel  caught  up  the  re¬ 
ceiver. 

“Hello.” 

“Mr.  Geer?” 

“Speaking.” 

“This  is  Rufus  Edwards.” 

“How  are  you,  Dr.  Edwards?” 

“I  want  to  send  a  young  woman  to  see  you.  An 
old  friend.  You  might  give  her  something  to  do 
down  there — or  at  any  rate,  some  advice.” 

“Of  course,  I’ll  be  delighted  to  see  her.  Will  you 
ask  her  to  come  in  tomorrow — say  about  noon. 
What  is  the  name  ?” 

“Amy  Fiske.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Geer,  a  great 
favor — By  the  way,  can  you  dine  with  me  some 
night  next  week?  How  about  Thursday?” 

“Thank  you,  that  would  be  fine.  Thursday,  then 

_ ft 

“About  eight.  Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye.”  Damned  old  bore.  Speak  a  civil 
word  and  they  take  advantage.  Now  I’ll  have  to 
see  that  girl  and  waste  an  hour  of  my  time  hearing 
some  hard  luck  story  or  the  panting  ambition  of  a 
recent  graduate  from  a  school  of  journalism. 
Damned  inconsiderate  of  Old  Rufus  and  I’d  like  to 
tell  him  so.  I’ll  get  Miss  Elliot  to  help  me  out. 
Call  me  to  a  conference  after  five  minutes.  And 
write  a  note  for  me  about  Thursday.  “Regret  press 


12 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


of  work  at  the  office  will  deprive  me  of  the  great 
pleasure — ”  Wish  Trainer  would  keep  his  feet 
still.  Paws  like  an  ungulate.  He  could  do  that 
schedule  in  his  sleep.  Isn’t  waiting  for  me.  No 
imagination  but  good  all  around  man.  Trembling 
in  his  boots  the  day  I  came  in  here.  They  all  were. 
Knew  I  had  the  power  to  clear  everybody  out. 
That  will  come  as  I  find  new  writers.  Young  blood. 
That’s  what  I  want.  Vivid  style,  humor. 

“Great  cartoon  that,  Mr.  Geer,”  said  Trainer, 
waving  a  hand  at  a  ragged  square  of  cardboard  on 
the  desk.  “Warren  certainly  puts  across  some 
wonders.” 

“Um — he’s  not  stale  yet,”  said  Daniel.  “But  as 
soon  as  he  begins  to  let  up  I  have  another  man  in 
mind.  Warren  had  better  keep  on  his  toes.” 

“Oh,”  said  Trainer,  his  eyebrows  lifting.  Just 
as  well  to  let  him  pass  the  word  about  that  I  expect 
their  best  every  day.  No  coddling  in  this  office. 
The  best  they’ve  got  or  out  they  go. 

“I’ll  get  after  the  sporting  department  next  week,” 
said  Daniel.  “We  need  a  new  writer  in  there.  Per¬ 
haps  Ormand - ” 

Trainer  got  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  Daniel  with 
shocked  eyes.  “Ormand?  Ormand,  Mr.  Geer? 
He’s  never  even  seen  a  game  of  tennis.  Poker  and 
pinochle  are  about  his  speed.” 

“He’ll  learn  the  ropes  in  no  time.  He  has  what 
we  need — a  humorous  touch  and  lots  of  speed. 
McPhale  can  watch  his  copy  for  breaks.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


13 


Trainer  shook  his  head  and  drew  down  the  stained 
corners  of  his  mouth  in  a  bitter  curve  as  he  started 
for  the  door. 

Daniel  picked  up  the  evening  papers.  That  old 
fogy  hates  new  methods.  He  must  know  his  day 
is  nearly  done.  Hear  he  keeps  a  bottle  in  his  desk. 
So  does  Sanderson.  Poor  devils,  it  consoles  them. 
They  need  it  at  that  age.  The  young  have  less  ex¬ 
cuse.  Let  the  prohibitionists  guard  the  tender  gullets 
and  leave  the  leather-throats  free  to  guzzle.  Not 
easy  to  learn  to  drink.  It  takes  patience  and  train¬ 
ing  to  swallow  and  keep  it.  The  very  young  need 
coercion.  Quite  painful  for  them.  Like  those  little 
girls  in  the  pension  in  Paris  who  were  always  crying 
for  milk.  That’s  the  other  extreme  of  prohibition. 
Well,  there’s  nothing  like  wine  for  age  and  grief. 
An  unequaled  panacea  for  life  when  it’s  too  late  for 
love — or  love’s  substitute.  And  as  for  that - 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  Now  for  the  fruit  with 
the  bitter  core.  Out  to  join  the  hunt  with  the  rest 
of  mankind — the  only  game  in  which  any  man  can 
win  who  has  the  price.  The  preliminary  elbow-touch 
and  chin-chuckings.  Don’t  notice  if  there’s  a  cast 
in  the  eye  or  an  irregularity  of  gait.  Nature  doesn’t 
bait  her  trap  with  the  finest  for  a  mere  game  of  hide- 
and-seek.  The  choice  morsels  are  reserved  for  the 
feasts  of  Canaan.  Let  me  see.  Get  appointment  and 
dinner  by  eight.  Away  from  here  by  twelve.  Will 
she  wait  ?  Or  find  a  better  bargain  before  my  tryst  ? 
Faithful  till  midnight.  Till  death,  they  used  to  sing, 


14 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


the  troubadours.  Saccharine  romanticism  surviving 
all  ages.  The  madrigals  and  sonnets  of  the  nine¬ 
teen-twenties  written  in  terms  of  this  moronic  day 
in  Tin-Pan  Alley.  Takes  a  jazz  band  nowadays  to 
put  them  across.  Then  romance  does  a  flourishing 
business.  “Give  me  sixty  percent  royalties  or  I’ll 
take  my  thirty  heart-throbs  a  month  to  another  pub¬ 
lisher.  What  do  you  think  I  work  for  anyway — 
love  ?”  Not  much  you  don’t,  young  Abraham  Shake¬ 
speare.  And  quite  right  you  are,  my  boy.  We  are 
past  the  sentimental  seventeenth  century. 

“Oh,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 

Though  absence  seemed  my  flame  to  qualify.” 

A  weak  recrudescence  of  the  Virgin-worshipping 
middle  ages  when  her  Gothic  fingers  were  in  Euro¬ 
pean  skies.  Beauty  without  truth  gives  place  to 
truth  without  beauty.  A  fleche  exchanged  for  a 
Crookes  tube.  Good  enough.  A  scientist  is  worth 
a  hundred  puling  poets. 

Daniel  thrust  an  arm  into  his  overcoat  and  reached 
for  his  hat.  Half  way  to  the  door  he  went  back  for 
his  cigarettes.  He  pulled  the  lid  of  his  desk  down 
half  way,  patted  a  pile  of  clippings  into  order  and 
snapped  off  the  light.  Frowning,  he  threw  back  his 
shoulders  and  strode  through  the  door  into  the 
bright,  clicking  city  room.  Without  turning  his 
head  he  saw  the  rows  of  desks  and  bent  heads,  the 
litter  of  newspapers,  the  dark  door  of  the  “morgue.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


15 


An  odor  of  wet  ink  arose  from  the  stairs  that  led  to 
the  composing  room.  He  breathed  it  with  spread 
nostrils.  As  sweet  as  flesh  to  me.  Black  flesh?  I 
don’t  know.  Ask  Loti,  Gaugin  and  the  Father  of 
his  Country. 

“Mr.  Geer !  Will  you  sign  your  letters  before  you 
go?” 

Daniel  stopped  and  looked  down  at  Miss  Elliot. 
Nice  eyes.  Hazel  with  goldish  tints  and  glints.  She 
isn’t  so  bad  when  she  lets  her  mouth  alone. 

“No.  Leave  them  on  my  desk.  Goodnight.” 

He  passed  from  the  fulgid  confusion  into  the 
grayness  of  the  corridor. 


II 


The  night  outside  was  a  black  gulf  hung  with 
lights.  Daniel's  heels  came  down  with  regular 
clicks  as  if  he  listened  to  martial  sounds.  He  avoided 
the  eager-eyed  crowd  aiming  for  the  subway  in  the 
square  and  struck  across  to  a  calmer  corner.  There 
he  turned  south  and  faced  the  giant  containers  of  the 
city’s  commerce. 

He  walked  slowly,  his  eyes  on  the  high  horizon  of 
masonry.  They  loom  up  to  block  out  the  stars  and 
their  ragged  outline  proclaims  the  daring  and  power 
of  puny-limbed  man — homo  sapiens.  He  no  longer 
has  an  instinct  to  raise  something  for  the  sake  of 
having  it  last  beyond  his  life.  The  Egyptians’ 
tombs!  They  tried  to  fight  the  oblivion  of  death 
by  monuments  at  which  men  coming  after  would 
gaze  astonished  and  murmur  in  perpetuity  a  name 
thus  preserved  in  granite  glory.  But  men  have  built 
all  that  ahead  of  me  for  rentals.  They  have  sold 
their  egos,  already  emasculated  by  Christianity,  for 
an  enormous  annual  income. 

He  was  passing  a  lighted  shop.  A  girl  stood  at 
the  window.  He  curved  in  towards  her.  Fastidious 
profile.  What  does  she  stare  at?  Beads  and  brace¬ 
lets  spread  and  hung  for  just  such  hungry  eyes. 

16 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


1 7 


He  stood  at  her  side.  She  glanced  up,  startled, 
and  received  his  full  gaze.  After  a  moment  she 
bent  her  head.  He  did  not  move.  She  put  up  her 
hand  and  pulled  down  her  hat  with  a  timid  gesture. 
He  stepped  back  and  looked  at  the  glitter  of  gold 
and  coral  behind  the  glass.  What  pitiful  eyes ! 
Little  drowned  flowers.  Eve  seen  them  before. 
Ruth’s  eyes  like  that  the  day  I  stoned  her  kitten. 
How  long  ago?  Twenty  years.  Eheu  fugaces, 
Postume!  Her  eyes  faded  now  and  lined  by  Andrew 
and  the  three  fruits — sour  little  devils.  But  this 
girl’s  eyes  enough  like  Ruth’s  to  be  a  restraint.  She’s 
turning.  Oh,  let  her  go.  Anyway,  she  can’t  be. 
Not  with  those  fresh  eyes. 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  walked  away.  Ruth 
and  my  unpleasant  childhood.  She  weak  and  sensi¬ 
tive,  I  rough  and  moody.  “See  how  nicely  your 
sister  behaves  in  church.”  “Your  sister  gets  up  in 
the  morning  when  she  is  called.”  “Your  sister  never 
forgets  to  wash  her  hands.”  She  used  to  cry  when 
I  was  whipped  and  bring  me  cookies  afterward. 
Wouldn’t  steal  them  for  herself.  A  born  comforter. 
The  weak  serving  the  strong.  She  doesn’t  like  to 
see  me  now.  Thinks  my  ideas  for  the  children  will 
undermine  sweet  sickening  home  influence.  Mother¬ 
hood  handled  well  only  in  Sparta.  Leave  the  babies 
in  the  rain  all  night.  Take  those  that  survive  away 
from  pap  and  cooings  and  make  them  fit  for  life. 
That  would  solve  the  overpopulation  problem  with¬ 
out  help  from  old  Malthus.  I’d  like  to  write  a  book 


18  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

on  motherhood.  Part  one :  How  to  be  intelligent 
though  a  mother.  Part  two:  Taking  the  drool  out 
of  maternity.  Part  three:  Painless  extraction  of 
sentimentality.  Part  four :  The  ferine  mother  ver¬ 
sus  the  mother  evolved.  Part  five:  Motherhood’s 
coming  of  age.  Part  six :  They  desert  you  at  twenty, 
why  not  do  it  first  ? 

A  man,  stepping  from  a  doorway,  collided  with 
him. 

“Excuse  me.  Didn’t  see  you  coming.” 

Daniel  pulled  his  hat  back  in  place,  standing  in 
the  light  from  a  row  of  plate  glass  windows.  Just 
inside  a  man  stiffly  wrapped  in  white  threw  limp 
cakes  into  the  air  and  caught  them  on  a  plate.  Be¬ 
hind  him  the  rows  of  tables  were  half  filled  by  early 
diners.  A  girl  sat  alone  near  the  door.  She  had 
taken  off  her  hat  and  her  clipped  hair  fell  about 
forehead  and  ears,  making  stubby  black  points 
against  her  skin.  Her  mouth  was  full-blown  and 
scarlet. 

Daniel  stood  staring.  Little  blackbird.  Is  that 
rouge  on  her  mouth?  She  has  a  bold  black  eye 
and  I  think  it’s  fixed  on  me.  She  hasn’t  blinked 
since  I’ve  been  looking  at  her.  Well,  there’ll  be  no 
prettier  one  on  the  auction  block  tonight  so  let  us 
get  on  with  the  matter.  Let  us  enter  and  dine 
behind  the  vaudeville  act  in  the  window. 

He  passed  the  girl’s  table  and  hung  up  his  hat 
and  overcoat  on  a  hook,  pausing  to  read  the  restau¬ 
rant’s  repudiation  of  responsibility  for  empty  gar- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


19 


ments.  He  dried  his  sweating  palms  and  replaced 
his  handkerchief  ceremoniously.  Nerves,  nerves. 
Too  much  pressure  on  me.  It’s  harder  to  play  than 
to  work.  Now  for  the  role  of  conquering  male.  I 
would  have  done  it  better  ten  thousand  years  ago. 
As  it  is,  I  wield  a  newspaper  in  my  hand  instead  of 
a  club  as  I  approach  those  mysterious  soft  allure¬ 
ments.  Without  prescience  one  would  not  only  be 
tormented  but  destroyed  in  that  pleasant  baited 
morass.  Courage,  I  go  to  crook  the  knee  to  Eros, 
the  iconoclast. 

The  girl  looked  across  at  him  with  quick  indif¬ 
ferent  eyes  as  he  sat  down.  Then  as  if  unaware  of 
his  scrutiny  across  the  narrow  whiteness  between 
them,  she  watched  the  street,  her  lazy  eyelids  droop¬ 
ing,  recovering,  drooping.  I  was  right.  Her  mouth 
is  rouged.  But  rouge  on  a  background  as  red  as 
itself.  She  keeps  her  eyes  away.  Some  burly  type 
would  please  her  better  than  I,  knowing  the  ap¬ 
proach.  Yet  I  have  in  my  pocket  that  which  will 
release  interest,  smiles,  flutterings — the  parade  of 
her  graces.  Touch  the  currency  button.  Fiat  lux . 
Where’s  the  menu? 

He  reached  toward  the  girl  as  a  waitress  with 
stained  hands  put  down  a  tray  and  served  dishes 
from  it  with  the  small  rapid  gestures  with  which  one 
deals  a  pack  of  cards.  She  passed  to  Daniel’s  side 
and  bent  for  his  order. 

The  girl  began  to  eat,  dipping  successively  into 
small  dishes  and  chewing  her  food  frankly.  He 


20 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


opened  his  newspaper.  By  looking  at  the  headlines 
he  could  see  her  face,  a  pale  blur  beyond  his  direct 
vision.  Savage  little  type.  She  would  go  well  in 
the  Place  Pigalle.  With  longer  hair,  a  Goya.  Some¬ 
thing  like  that  Portuguese  girl  I  found  on  the  Quai 
d’ Anjou.  Dark  down  on  her  upper  lip.  One  sees 
it  often  in  France.  Some  like  it.  Others  advocate  a 
depilatory.  I’m  sure  I  don’t  care.  It’s  neither  an 
aphrodisiac  nor  a  drawback  to  me.  Certain  tastes 
rejoice  in  a  cast  in  the  eye,  a  bizarre  turn  of  counte¬ 
nance,  a  crooked  back,  Cezanne’s  women,  the  poison¬ 
ous  hauteur  of  old  Florentine  busts,  Cranach’s  false 
nudes.  Of  the  ancients  I  choose  never  the  chill 
calm  of  Greece  but  the  exquisite  lines  of  Nephretete, 
passionately  lean,  sweet-lipped,  proudly  ruling 
Egypt.  Her  dissipated  dust  now  floats  behind  dis¬ 
tant  curtains.  Perhaps  I  alone  in  all  the  world 
mourn  Nephretete  tonight,  sitting  in  vulgar  glare 
and  clatter,  bent  on  a  project  that — Ah,  she  is  star¬ 
ing  at  me.  Thick  lids  insolent  eyes. 

Daniel  folded  his  newspaper  and  held  it  out. 
“Would  you  like  to  see  this?” 

She  hesitated.  “Thanks.” 

He  watched  her  open  the  paper.  Satin  unflushed 
cheeks.  A  flare  to  the  nostrils.  Looks  healthy.  She 
didn’t  have  much  of  a  dinner.  I  suppose  if  someone 
else  were  paying  for  it  she  would  order  nine  opulent 
courses.  I  used  to  hear  about  women  being  delicate 
eaters.  I’ve  never  dined  one  yet  that  didn’t  eat  more 
than  I.  I  wish  I  hadn’t  given  her  that  paper.  She’ll 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


21 


read  it  all  if  only  to  annoy  me.  She  knows  I  want 
to  talk  to  her.  So  does  every  man  she  meets  proba¬ 
bly.  Old  Bill  McMahon  used  to  say,  “Let  the 
pretty  ones  alone,  boys,  and  pick  the  others.  They’re 
fresher.” 

The  girl  looked  across  squarely.  “I  bet  she  killed 
him — that  Mrs.  Cramer  down  to  Long  Island.” 

“Very  likely,  judging  from  the  evidence.  But 
the  jury - ” 

“She  done  it  all  right,  all  right.” 

“Tell  me.  Would  you  kill  someone  if  you  were 
jealous?  You  look  as  if  you  would.” 

“Me?  I  dunno.  I  might  if  he  was  worth  it.” 

The  waitress  placed  his  dinner  before  him  and 
poked  the  menu  into  the  girl’s  hand. 

“Have  something  with  me,”  said  Daniel.  “Yes? 
Good.  Bring  some  ice  cream,  please.” 

The  girl  stared  at  Daniel  with  cold  puzzled  eyes. 

“What  do  you  do?  I  mean,  do  you  work?”  he 
asked. 

“Sure.  Don’t  you?”  She  raised  the  newspaper 
between  their  faces. 

Daniel  took  up  his  fork.  Presently  he  put  it 
down  and  dried  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his  nap¬ 
kin.  A  touchy  little  devil.  I’ll  have  to  go  slow. 
The  chase  in  always  a  humiliation  to  me.  Here  I 
sit,  eating  a  dinner  I  don’t  want  and  trying  to  inter¬ 
est  and  placate  a  girl  with  a  Neanderthalensis  intel¬ 
ligence — all  because  the  hour  has  struck.  It’s 
degrading — appalling.  No  wonder  those  gaunt  nar- 


22 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


row-templed  ascetics  fled  to  caves  with  ropes  and 
nettles.  Swish,  sting,  be  off  with  your  beckoning 
eyes.  My  flesh  shall  not  be  leman  to  you,  iniquitous 
and  unclean  messenger  of  Satan.  Peace,  peace, 
while  I  save  my  soul  and  on  with  the  flagellation. 
Nowadays  you’d  be  dragged  off  for  a  lunatic. 

The  waitress  brought  a  plate  of  ice  cream  and  the 
girl  put  down  the  paper.  “You  didn’t  eat  your  din¬ 
ner,”  she  said. 

“I  was  thinking,”  said  Daniel. 

“Thinking  never  keeps  me  from  eating.”  She 
smiled  slightly. 

“Perhaps  you  haven’t  anything  to  worry  about,” 
said  Daniel. 

“Don’t  you  believe  it.”  Her  voice  took  a  higher 
note.  “My  mother’s  sick  and  my  sister’s  just  lost 
her  job.  That  leaves  me  and  the  kid  brother  to  make 
good.  My  father  run  off  last  year.” 

“What  kind  of  job  have  you?” 

“What  do  you  want  to  know  for?” 

“Why — I — Excuse  me.  I  only  hoped  you  had  a 
good  one.” 

She  lifted  her  shoulders  and  returned  to  her  ice 
cream.  Daniel  watched  her.  Parents  probably 
Italian.  Even  Greek.  That’s  why  she  evades  a 
direct  answer  by  moving  her  shoulders.  She’s  of¬ 
fended.  Why?  Perhaps  because  I  don’t  know  how 
to  talk  to  her. 

He  swallowed  some  water  to  relieve  the  dryness 
in  his  throat.  “You  didn’t  have  a  very  good  dinner 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


23 


tonight.  Suppose  you  meet  me  when  I  get  through 
at  my  office  and  we’ll  have  a  little  supper.  Cold 
lobster  or  chicken — anything  you  like.  And  after¬ 
ward  I’ll  give  you  something  to  take  home  to  your 
mother.”  He  tapped  his  breast  pocket  that  she 
might  understand. 

She  studied  him  a  moment  before  she  replied. 
“What’s  the  idea  ?” 

He  hesitated.  Damn  her  truculent  air.  Why 
can’t  she  be  businesslike?  I’m  being  as  delicate  as 
possible.  Don’t  tell  me  she  hasn’t  done  this  before. 
Not  with  that  bold  stare  and  paint  on  her  mouth. 
Why  did  she  talk  to  me  if  she  wasn’t  hoping  for  a 
good  bargain?  Everybody  knows  that  some  work¬ 
ing  girls  supplement  their  wages  by  going  out  occa¬ 
sionally.  “You’re  a  pretty  girl  and  I  like  you.  Isn’t 
that  enough?”  Perhaps  if  I  attack  in  my  turn  she 
will  have  more  respect  for  me.  If  not  I  won’t  waste 
my  time  persuading  her. 

“How  late  would  it  be  ?” 

“Midnight  at  least.” 

She  shook  her  head.  “I  can’t.  My  mother  won’t 
go  to  sleep  till  I  get  home.” 

“Why  not  go  home  now?  Wait  till  she’s  asleep 
and  go  out  again.  I  used  to  manage  that  way  when 
I  lived  at  home.” 

“And  come  all  the  way  back  downtown  ?” 

“No.  I  live  in  Eighty-First  Street.” 

“Where  are  we  going  to  eat?” 

Daniel  looked  directly  into  her  eyes.  “At  my 


24 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


apartment.  You  can  come  there  in  a  taxi.  I’ll  be 
waiting  for  you.” 

“Oh.”  She  considered  something  that  seemed  to 
amuse  her.  She  began  to  smile.  White  shining 
teeth.  Such  a  pretty  little  savage.  I’m  in  luck.  Her 
throat  smooth  and  hard  as  marble.  Shoulders  nicely 
turned.  My  heart  anticipates — beating,  beating. 
She  must  like  me  a  little.  She  hasn’t  asked  for  any¬ 
thing.  Usually  they  think  they  are  about  to  tap  a 
new  vein  and  come  running  with  pickaxes  and  dyna¬ 
mite. 

“All  right.  What’s  the  address?”  She  buttoned 
the  collar  of  her  cape  about  her  throat  and  put  on 
her  hat.  Daniel  wrote  on  his  card  with  a  hand  that 
shook  and  sweated.  He  passed  it  across  the  table' 
and  slid  her  dinner  check  on  top  of  his. 

“We’ll  say  half-past  twelve  then?” 

She  nodded  and  leaned  across  to  him.  Soft  eyes 
and  the  gleam  of  teeth.  I  can  smell  her  hair.  The 
procedure  of  the  female.  All  retreats  and  claws 
until  the  moment  she  decides  to  capitulate.  Then  the 
contours  are  smooth  over  relaxed  muscles. 

“What  if  you’re  late?  I’d  be  out  in  the  cold  with 
a  taxi  to  pay  for.”  She  stood  and  jerked  on  her 
gloves. 

“I’ll  fix  that,”  said  Daniel.  His  stained  old  wallet 
trembled  in  his  fingers.  She’s  right,  of  course.  A 
tie-up  in  the  subway — an  accident  to  the  presses — 
I  might  be  delayed  an  hour  or  more.  Damn !  Only 
five  and  ten  dollar  bills.  Get  change.  “Just  a  mo- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


25 


ment,”  he  said.  He  laid  a  five  dollar  bill  on  the 
table  while  he  folded  his  wallet.  ‘Til  get  this 
changed  for  your  taxi.” 

The  girl  reached  over  and  swept  up  the  bill,  laugh¬ 
ing.  She  walked  around  to  him.  “See  you  later.” 
Her  hand  stroked  his  sleeve  up  and  down.  He 
looked  at  her  mouth,  the  blood  creeping  up  in  his 
face.  Still  laughing,  she  went  to  the  door  with  quick 
steps  and  passed  into  the  street. 

The  waitress  came  up  to  Daniel  with  a  troubled 
face.  “Is  anything  wrong,  sir?” 

“No,  no,”  said  Daniel.  “Nothing.”  He  went  to 
fetch  his  overcoat  and  put  it  on  at  the  cashier’s  desk. 
My  little  treasure,  my  little  scented  savage.  Her 
fingers  still  penetrate  me.  The  folds  of  her  cape 
clung  close  about  her  slenderness.  She  must  be  new 
at  it.  Not  like  most  of  them.  Asked  for  no  guaran¬ 
tees.  Really,  she  likes  me,  I  think.  She  didn’t  have 
to  touch  my  arm. 

Outside  Daniel  stood  bareheaded  and  looked  at 
the  sky.  Sex  isn’t  always  ugly  after  all.  Sometimes 
a  refuge  from  the  prose  and  poetry  of  work,  a  per¬ 
fumed  interlude  without  the  pain  of  thinking.  Per¬ 
haps  I  am  not  wise  to  force  myself  into  such 
rigidities  of  habit.  That  girl — my  little  savage — 
I  might  see  her  often.  But  no.  There  would  be 
an  attachment — scenes — money  for  the  sick  moth¬ 
er — 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  began  to  walk.  The  night 
was  as  chill  as  a  cavern.  A  wind  blew  through 


26 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


streets  that  were  emptied  each  nightfall  of  their 
thousands  as  cities  in  other  times  were  deserted 
when  a  plague  descended.  He  smiled  as  he  ploughed 
into  the  wind.  Send  Micky  out  for  lobster  or 
chicken.  No,  it’s  absurd  to  spend  money  like  that. 

Sandwiches  would  do.  Yet  I  promised  her - . 

Well,  a  chicken,  then.  Two  dollars  at  a  delicates¬ 
sen’s.  And  lettuce  sandwiches — say,  fifty  cents. 
And  a  few  drinks  of  sherry.  Tell  Micky  to  have  the 
chicken  packed  in  a  box.  I  don’t  want  to  carry  a 
grease-smeared  parcel.  Out  of  the  office  at  eleven- 
thirty.  Home  at  twelve  and  half  an  hour  to  set  the 
table  and  wash  up.  Must  open  sherry  bottle.  Tra,  la, 
la !  The  first  visitor  to  my  apartment.  I’ll  tell  her 
so.  No.  She  might  feel  too  important.  Will  you 
walk  into  my  parlor  said  the  spider  to  the — female 
spider.  Oh,  so  willingly,  kind  sir.  My  prices  vary 
accordingly  to  the  quality  of  your  web.  Is  it  cotton 
or  silk?  I  must  know  before  I  advance  another 
centimeter.  My  little  savage  will  say  silk,  I’m  sure. 
And  silk  it  is  compared  to  her  tenement.  Enter  the 
first  visitor — woman.  Exit  the  ascetic,  his  grey 
mantle  streaked  with  purple  at  last. 

“Abstinence  sows  sand  all  over 
The  ruddy  limbs  and  flaming  hair  ” 

Sands  of  time,  running,  running.  Time  only  an  illu¬ 
sion,  being  one  with  space.  In  the  year  of  an  atom 
man’s  second  is  not  perceived  but  lasts  through  an 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


27 


eternity.  And  our  eternity  is  but  a  flash  in  the  life 
cycle  of  Canopus.  The  shivering  weak  cover  their 
faces  and  flee  back  to  the  human  bosom  of  their 
Creator  with  a  capital  C.  He  didn’t  tell  them  any¬ 
thing  so  disquieting.  Better  heaven  and  hell  than 
relativity.  A  man  knows  where  he  stands  when  he 
hears  about  harps  and  brimstone.  He  holds  one 
and  gets  choked  with  the  other.  That’s  reasonable. 
But  tell  him  matter  may  be  only  a  hole  in  the  solid 
ether  and  he  will  shake  a  Bible  at  you.  The  number 
of  Bible-shakers  has  fallen  off,  though,  even  in  my 
time.  Now  a  man  is  just  as  likely  to  say,  “Let’s 
see  you  prove  it  to  me.”  Father  is  still  shaking  the 
Bible.  But  only  at  mother.  He  must  miss  the 
ferocious  zest  for  prayer  I  inspired.  The  night  he 
held  me  by  my  hair  and  prayed  for  my  conversion. 
I  felt  anger  and  shame  for  him.  Now  that  has 
faded  into  contempt.  Honor  thy  father.  An  im¬ 
portant  precept  among  Chinese  and  Jews.  There’s 
small  honor  for  parents  among  those  that  call  them¬ 
selves  after  the  beautiful  megalomaniac  of  Nazareth. 
Only  pity,  mixed  with  diluted  affection  and  irrita¬ 
tion.  Blame  sentimentality  for  that.  When  living 
gets  soft  the  soul  buds  forth  and  the  fruit  is  senti¬ 
ment,  romance  and  havens  for  the  unfit.  Still  some 
races  left,  however,  that  crack  them  on  the  head. 
Little  corners  of  the  earth  where  they  don’t  under¬ 
stand  why  we  save  them.  One  sect  in  India 
ostricises  women  after  the  menopause — roofs  given 
only  to  the  reproductive.  Wonder  what  happens  to 


28 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


the  old  men?  Servants,  I  daresay,  hunting  in  the 
heads  of  their  children’s  children. 

Daniel  pushed  through  the  swinging  doors  of  his 
office  building.  A  young  woman  with  light  curls 
under  her  hat  was  entering  the  elevator.  He  turned 
aside  to  the  tobacconist  established  in  the  corridor 
and  bought  cigarettes.  I’ll  wait  for  the  next  ele¬ 
vator.  She  would  talk  to  me  about  sending  her  to 
Washington  for  the  convention.  If  she  asks  me 
about  it  again  I’m  going  to  tell  her  that  I  think  Miss 
Ramsey  can  do  it  better.  I’ll  spare  neither  pride  nor 
precedent  in  this  office. 

He  filled  his  cigarette  case  and  took  the  next  ele¬ 
vator  to  the  editorial  rooms.  The  light  had  been 
turned  on  in  his  office  and  the  lid  of  his  desk  pushed 
up  to  make  way  for  the  evening  papers,  mail,  proofs 
and  telephone  messages.  He  sat  down  and  opened 
a  telegram  that  lay  on  top  of  his  letters : 

“Thank  you  for  the  appointment  tomorrow.  Amy 
Fiske.” 

He  let  it  fall  into  the  basket  at  his  side.  Why  does 
she  R.S.V.P.  me?  She  must  think  a  newspaper  is 
like  a  dinner  party.  I’ll  see  her  just  long  enough  to 
say  there’s  no  opening  for  her  here.  I  owe  old 
Rufus  that  much. 

He  rang  for  Micky,  gave  a  number  to  the  tele¬ 
phone  operator  and  drew  a  proof  of  the  editorial 
page  across  his  papers.  The  evening  routine  began. 
Orders,  consultations,  rebukes,  corrections,  the  re¬ 
curring  summons  of  the  telephone.  At  half-past 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


29 


eleven  he  pushed  away  some  proofs  and  sent  out  for 
Trainer.  “I’m  going  early  tonight,”  he  said. 
“Look  out  for  things.”  That  will  flatter  him — to  be 
left  in  charge.  A  fever  drumming  in  my  blood. 
Fve  been  working  entirely  in  the  subconscious  to¬ 
night.  My  little  savage.  She  won’t  have  to  wait  for 
me.  Package.  Coat.  Gloves.  Hat. 

In  the  street  he  turned  up  his  collar  and  blew  his 
breath  in  spurts  of  warm  steam.  The  thick  smell 
of  sweat  weighted  the  air  of  the  subway  station — 
that  pungent  incense  to  man’s  labors.  Daniel  seated 
himself  in  a  train  and  balanced  his  package  on  his 
knee.  He  stared  through  the  window  at  the  walls  of 
the  subway  as  they  roared  past,  streaked  by  sudden 
lights.  Each  train  paints  its  own  frescoes.  Patterns 
of  almandite  and  ochre  chasing  us  along  moist  walls, 
caught  and  effaced  by  sentinel  lights  or  the  inter¬ 
vention  of  a  station.  Clamor  and  blare,  thunder 
and  turmoil — we  suffer  all  these  in  order  to  huddle 
our  roofs  together  every  man  in  terror  lest  he  be 
squeezed  out  into  the  country  where  the  stars  will 
enter  his  thoughts. 

His  package  slipped  from  his  knees  and  fell  to  the 
floor.  He  snatched  it  up  and  held  it  between  his 
hands.  My  little  savage’s  supper.  Kisses  between 
mouthfuls  and  sips — food  translated  into  flesh  and 
thought.  The  breast  of  chicken  tomorrow  trans¬ 
formed  by  nature’s  alembic  into  a  tender  memory  of 
me.  Wagner’s  sauerkraut  and  sausages  became  the 
piercingly  sweet  Abendstern.  Newton’s  dinners  of 


30 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


red  beef  turned  into  concepts  of  gravitation.  Hoka- 
sai’s  bowls  of  rice  are  now  flowing  lines  hotly  bid 
for  at  Occidental  auctions. 

The  train  ground  to  a  stop  and  Daniel  poked  him¬ 
self  through  the  crowd  that  pressed  up  the  stairways. 
The  wind,  cold  and  determined,  forced  itself  through 
cheviot  and  linen.  He  shivered  and  set  his  teeth. 
This  climate  one  of  the  prices  we  pay  for  progress. 
We  need  a  measure  of  discomfort,  it  seems,  to  buck 
us  up  for  the  struggle  of  achievement.  We  thrive 
on  shivers  and  sweat  and  having  to  decide  often 
about  changing  our  underwear.  Too  much  hard¬ 
ship  and  we  sit  dully  in  igloos  unfit  for  mental  effort 
or  the  proximity  of  a  civilized  nose.  Too  much 
comfort  and  we  take  our  ease  under  a  flat-leafed  tree, 
almost  too  listless  to  like  the  motion  of  the  waves 
on  the  beach. 

Daniel  opened  the  door  of  his  apartment  and 
looked  about.  It  isn’t  so  bad  since  I  bought  that 
Mexican  rug.  Nice  red  in  it — like  the  rich  loam  of 
Ceylon.  She’ll  like  that.  The  books  make  pleasing 
blocks  of  color  against  the  gray  of  the  walls.  But  I 
daresay  she  won’t  notice  the  books. 

He  spread  a  yellow  and  brown  checked  cloth  on 
the  table  and  fetched  plates,  glasses  and  a  bottle  of 
sherry  from  the  kitchenette.  Turning  on  the  cold 
water  in  the  bathroom,  he  put  clean  towels  about. 
His  pajamas  were  hanging  on  the  bathroom  door, 
wrinkled  and  limp.  He  pulled  them  down  and 
kicked  them  under  the  bathtub.  He  thrust  razor  and 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


3i 


toothbrush  into  the  cabinet  and  filled  a  pitcher  with 
water  for  the  table.  Half  cutting,  half  pulling,  he 
separated  the  chicken  into  four  clammy  parts. 
Hurry,  hurry,  hurry.  Greasy  fingers.  Can’t  stop 
to  wash  them.  She  may  be  waiting  even  now.  I’ll 
leave  the  light  burning.  In  case  she’s  timid  about 
stepping  over  a  strange  threshold  into  darkness. 

He  snatched  up  his  hat,  closed  the  door  behind 
him  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  The  hall  boy  dozed 
at  the  switchboard  of  the  telephone.  Walking  on 
his  toes,  Daniel  passed  by.  The  street  was  empty. 
He  went  to  the  curb  and  looked  right  and  left.  The 
wind  lifted  swirls  of  dust  and  tossed  them  back  and 
forth  before  flinging  them  again  at  the  buildings. 

A  man  came  around  the  corner.  Daniel  watched 
him  approach,  cross  the  street  and  turn  into  a  door¬ 
way.  Presently  a  window  was  raised  in  the  oppo¬ 
site  apartment  house  and  a  woman  in  a  yellow 
kimono  stood  there  for  a  moment  before  the  light 
went  out.  More  swirls  of  dust  and  then  a  long 
interlude  during  which  the  street  rested  inactive. 

A  yellow  cat  trotted  by,  tail  held  high,  a  senti¬ 
mental  smile  in  her  eyes  as  she  blinked  them  at  the 
light  behind  Daniel.  A  scarred  grey  cat  followed 
her,  stretching  his  neck  forward  and  down  and  flat¬ 
tening  his  ears  as  he  passed.  The  yellow  cat  leaped 
down  an  area  way.  The  grey  cat  paused  on  the 
upper  step,  looking  down  and  swinging  his  tail  from 
side  to  side. 

A  silence  like  an  augury  lay  on  the  street’s  bleak- 


32 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


ness.  Daniel  knocked  his  heels  against  the  curb. 
He  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  Four  houses  to  the 
west.  Turn.  Four  houses  to  the  east.  Turn.  Four 
houses  to  the  west.  Turn. 

The  whirr  of  a  taxicab  sounded  in  the  distance. 
Daniel  stopped  walking  and  thrust  his  head  from  the 
collar  of  his  coat  to  listen  to  the  knock  of  the  engine 
as  it  labored  up  the  incline  of  the  avenue.  He  was 
at  the  curb  before  his  own  doorway  when  the  taxi¬ 
cab  turned  the  corner  and  rolled  at  him.  He  leaped 
to  the  door  and  pulled  it  open. 

An  old  man  stepped  out,  grave  and  surprised. 
“Thank  you,  sir,”  he  said.  “What’s  the  meter 
read,  driver?” 

Daniel  moved  back.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and 
slowly  returned  it  to  his  pocket.  The  old  man  went 
to  the  door  and  pushed  at  its  weight  with  a  feeble 
arm  and  shoulder.  Daniel,  reaching  from  behind 
him,  threw  it  open  with  a  vicious  thrust.  The  old 
man  stumbled  inside  and  made  for  the  elevator. 
Daniel,  his  lips  a  blue  line,  followed  into  the  hallway. 
The  door  closed  on  his  heels  with  a  clang. 


Ill 


Among  Daniel’s  letters  was  an  envelope  addressed 
in  wavering,  old-fashioned  writing.  Mother.  Still 
watering  that  old  bottle  of  ink.  Asking  me  to  come 
out  Sunday  to  dinner,  I  suppose.  I’d  better  go.  Let’s 

see — two,  no  three,  weeks  since  I - 

He  slit  the  envelope  with  a  paper  cutter  and  read 
the  penciled  lines,  frowning. 

“Dear  Dan : — We  haven’t  had  a  letter  from  you  in 
a  week.  How  are  you  getting  on  over  there?  I  hope 
you  will  come  out  on  Sunday.  The  insurance  is  due 
on  the  first,  you  mustn’t  forget  it  and  Pa  broke  the 
clock  again.  Ruth  was  over  yesterday  with  little  Eddie. 
She  wouldn’t  want  it  known  for  anything  but  she’s 
expecting  again.  This  is  strictly  private  for  you  only. 
She  looks  poorly  but  that’s  natural.  Andrew  is  doing 
fine  and  had  another  raise  at  the  office,  so  now  he  can 
give  Ruth  more  comforts.  I  am  well  and  wish  I  could 
say  as  much  for  your  Pa.  He  mopes  around  the  house 
and  goes  to  bed  every  afternoon.  Now,  Dan,  that  is  not 
like  your  Pa  to  do  that.  Maybe  he’s  got  some  sickness 
hanging  over  him  but  we’ll  hope  and  pray  for  the  best. 
Come  Sunday  sure.  Your  loving  mother,  Annie  Geer.” 

Daniel  tore  the  letter  into  bits.  Probably  old  age. 
He  must  be  sixty-eight  or  nine.  I  was  born  when  he 


33 


34 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


was  thirty-seven.  The  years  are  heavy  on  him  and 
will  soon  press  him  into  the  earth.  Then  mother’s 
turn.  And  mine.  Each  generation  burrowing  under 
disturbs  the  sod.  Our  steps  kick  up  the  dust  of  our 
ancestors.  All  life  that  has  been  lies  under  our 
boot-heels  and  we  tread  on  the  eyes  of  the  quiescent 
dead.  Stamp  one  day — get  stamped  on  the  next. 
Glad  Andrew  got  that  raise.  Now  he  won’t  be 
borrowing  from  me.  Poor  Ruth!  Another  suck¬ 
ling  to  sap  her  strength.  Andrews  image,  impress¬ 
ed  a  fourth  time,  will  inflate  him  still  more.  “Quite 
a  little  family,  eh,  Dan?  And  when  are  you  going 
to  do  your  duty  by  your  country?”  “Now,  Andy, 
you  stop  teasing  Dan.  You’ll  only  stir  him  up  and 
he’ll  start  on  one  of  his  lectures.”  “Well,  Ruthie, 
he  ought  to  be  stirred  up.  Why  don’t  he  get  busy 
and  find  some  nice  girl  to  marry  him?  With  all 
that  money  he’s  earning  it’s  a  shame.  He’s  grow¬ 
ing  into  a  regular  old  bach.”  “Marriage,  Andrew? 
Not  for  me.  Just  the  first  week  of  the  honeymoon. 
If  you  stay  longer  than  that  you’ll  find  disillusion¬ 
ment.  You  start  to  save  so  she  can  spend.  Bills, 
words,  tears.  She  telephones  your  office  to  ask  if 
you  still  love  her.  She  just  adores  the  theatre  and 
dancing.  Her  friends  come  in  the  evening  when 
you’re  reading.  Pregnancy.  Humor  her  whims. 
Calm  her  fears.  Reproach  yourself.  Terrors  of 
birth.  Then  turbulent  nights  in  the  interest  of  lung 
development.  Wet  garments,  faintly  ammoniacal, 
hang  on  the  radiators.  Loose  wrappers,  untidy 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


35 


hair,  wrinkled  eyes,  inferior  conversation — like 
yours,  Andrew.  Pregnant  again.  You’re  caught  in 
the  trap  for  life.  Only  a  villain  ever  gets  away 
and  breathes  free,  impersonal  air,  smiling  at  the 
curses  that  follow  him  as  if  they  were  petals.”  “I 
told  you  so,  Andy.  You  started  him  off  and — ” 

“Lady  says  she  has  appointment  with  you,  Mr. 
Geer.” 

Daniel  took  a  card  from  the  boy.  Miss  Amy 
Fiske.  Damn!  Old  Rufus.  Twelve  o’clock. 
Telegram.  Suppose  I’ll  have  to.  “Show  her  in. 
Send  Miss  Elliot  here  first.” 

He  scowled  at  his  littered  desk.  They’re  always 
late  except  when  you  don’t  want  to  see  them.  Then 
they  come  before  you  have  a  chance  to  read  your 
mail.  If  they  want  something  from  you  they’re 
Johnny-on-the-spot.  If  you  want  something  from 
them  they  don’t  turn  up.  Like  that  little  swindler 
last  night. 

“Dictation,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“No.  I  want  you  to  come  in  here  in  ten  minutes 
and  tell  me  that  I’m  wanted  at  a  conference.” 

“A  conference  ?” 

“Yes,  a  conference.  Is  the  word  new  to  you?” 

She  flushed.  “I  don’t  understand.” 

“It  isn’t  necessary.  Just  do  what  I  tell  you.” 

She  turned  away,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 
Stupid!  Does  she  think  I  have  time  to  stop  and 
explain  my  motives  to  the  office  force?  I  suppose 
I’ve  hurt  her  feelings.  Well,  she  isn’t  here  to  have 


36 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


feelings  but  to  take  orders.  If  she’s  sensitive  she’d 
better  stay  home  and  help  her  mother  wash  dishes. 
I’ve  no  time  to  coddle  the  employees.  I  hear  Miss 
Amy  Fiske  approaching,  damn  her.  If  she  has  any 
of  that  vaunted  feminine  intuition  she’ll  see  how 
busy  I  am  and  clear  out.  Behind  my  chair. 
Hesitating.  Perfume.  Penetrating  French  kind. 
Give  me  good  old  printer’s  ink. 

“Mr.  Geer?” 

Daniel  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  newspaper  he  was 
pretending  to  read  and  stood.  Without  looking  at 
her  face  he  accepted  a  firm,  smallish  hand  in  a  fawn- 
colored  glove. 

“Won’t  you  sit  down?”  he  said  and  tapped  his 
desk  with  a  pencil. 

“Dr.  Edwards  told  you,  I  believe,  that  I  am 
looking  for  a  position.  He  thought  perhaps  you 
would  give  me  a  chance  here  with  you.  I’ve  brought 
some  things  I’ve  been  writing.”  The  voice  was 
clear,  slightly  metallic,  enunciating  with  sharpness. 

Daniel  moved  his  shoulders.  “I  told  Dr. 
Edwards  that  there  was  no  opening  at  present.  If 
you  will  leave  your — um — articles  with  me,  how¬ 
ever,  I  shall  be  happy  to  look  at  them  and  give  you 
an  opinion.  If  you  have  talent  and  later  there’s  an 
opening — ” 

“Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.”  She  laid  a 
notebook  on  the  desk. 

Daniel  took  it  with  an  abrupt  gesture  and  placed 
it  in  a  pigeon-hole.  Not  likely  to  press  her  point 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


37 


after  my  firmness.  I  suppose  I’ll  have  to  read  that 
ridiculous  book  and  say  something  non-committal. 
Pity  she  doesn’t  use  a  typewriter. 

“I  suppose  you  haven’t  time  to  look  at  my  things 
now  ?” 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her  for  the  first 
time.  Red  hair,  grey  eyes  with  a  glint  of  green. 
Regular  Mona  Lisa  face  with  that  curious  smile 
in  the  eyes  rather  than  on  the  lips.  She  looks  a 
bit  undernourished — skin  dead  white.  But  the  lips 
are  red  enough — thin  unrouged  line. 

“I  really  haven’t,  Miss  Fiske.  Sorry.” 

“Oh,”  she  said.  “I  suppose  I  shouldn’t  have 
asked.” 

“Don’t  apologize.  I  know  you’re  not  used  to 
offices.”  He  leaned  back,  still  studying  her  face. 

“No.  That’s  something  I  must  learn.  And 
soon.” 

“What  have  you  been  doing?” 

She  moved  and  the  perfume  she  wore  entered  his 
nostrils.  “Going  to  school  and  travelling.  The 
usual  thing.  I  was  finishing  college  when  my  father 
died.  I  came  to  New  York  a  few  weeks  ago. 
Mother  didn’t  want  me  to  do  anything — to  work — 
in  Boston.” 

Daniel  acquiesced  with  a  nod.  “The  usual  thing.” 
Must  have  lost  their  money.  That’s  why  her  mother 
doesn’t  want  her  to  work  in  Boston.  Their  friends 
would  be  watching  and  criticizing  like  a  pack  of 
old  harpies.  Knowing  light  in  her  eyes.  I  wonder 


38 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


how  much  experience  she’s  had  with  life.  Of  course 
she’s  all  primed  to  make  a  good  impression  with  her 
talk  about  school  and  mother. 

‘‘The  field  is  larger  here,  of  course.”  Everything 
I  say  sounds  banal  and  sterile.  No,  I  haven’t  time 
to  look  at  your  book  now.  What  have  you  been 
doing?  The  field  is  larger  in  New  York.  A  moron 
would  have  done  better. 

“You  must  be  very  clever,  Mr.  Geer.  Dr.  Ed¬ 
wards  told  me  you  were  surprisingly  young  to 
have  such  an  important  position.  Did  you  begin 
here?” 

Daniel  smiled.  I  knew  old  Rufus  was  impressed 
although  he  only  said,  “Well,  well.”  Funny  the 
things  people  will  say  to  others  about  you  and  you 
hear  them  by  accident.  Almost  as  if  there  were  a 
tax  on  pleasant  words. 

“No.  On  a  smaller  paper  in  New  Jersey.  The 
circulation — ”  But  no.  I  can’t  tell  her  that.  Sounds 
like  boasting. 

“Yes?”  said  Amy.  Her  tone  was  encouraging 
and  sympathetic,  an  overture  to  further  confi¬ 
dences. 

“Technicalities.  You  wouldn’t  understand  them.” 

Her  perfume  reached  him  again.  I  daresay  some 
men  like  it.  Mother  used  to  say  good  women  didn’t 
use  it.  The  old-fashioned  idea,  springing  from  tales 
of  Parisian  cocottes.  They  say  women  have  per¬ 
fumes  blended  to  express  their  individualities. 
Heliothrope  and  violet  combinations  for  blondes — 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


39 


mixtures  of  musk  for  brunettes.  Red  hair  has  its 
own  natural  flavor,  that  Frenchman  at  the  Deux 
Magots  told  me.  As  often  unpleasant  as  not. 

“I  think  successful  people  are  cruelly  impatient 
with  beginners,”  Amy  said  suddenly.  “I  know  they 
haven’t  the  time  to  give.  But  that  superior  attitude 
is  in  human  nature.  I  can  remember  when  I  was 
going  to  school  in  France  an  American  girl  used  to 
want  to  practise  French  with  me.  I  told  her  I 
hadn’t  time  which  was  true.  But  whenever  she  was 
near  I  took  delight  in  speaking  as  fast  as  I  could, 
exaggerating  all  the  r’s  and  intonations.” 

“As  a  general  rule,  you’re  right,”  said  Daniel, 
“but  not  this  time.  I  didn’t  want  to  explain  how 
I  happened  to  come  here  because — ” 

“Do  tell  me.  I’ll  understand,”  said  Amy,  leaning 
forward. 

Daniel  looked  into  her  eyes,  hot,  cold,  insistent. 
He  breathed  her  perfume  and  after  a  moment  looked 
away.  Something  in  her  eyes  disturbs  me.  Danger¬ 
ous,  that  Gioconda  type.  Sorry  for  any  man  she 
gets  between  her  claws.  Not  the  usual  female 
prowler.  Has  she  brains? 

“I’m  sorry  not  to  hear  about  it,”  said  Amy.  She 
twisted  a  small  lock  of  hair  about  a  gloved  finger 
and  tucked  it  under  her  hat.  “Perhaps  some  other 
time — when  you  tell  me  your  opinion  of  my  mis¬ 
cellany  there.” 

“Ah,  yes,”  said  Daniel.  ‘Til  send  you  a  note 
about  it  when  I  return  your  book.” 


4° 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Then  I’m  not  to  see  you  again?”  A  flattering 
alarm  sounded  in  her  tone. 

“I’m  very  busy,  Miss  Fiske.  I  come  here  at  noon 
and  leave  after  midnight.” 

“But  luncheon?  Dinner?  Tea?  You  must 
sometimes  stop  at  those  hours.” 

“I  lunch  and  dine  at  a  restaurant  two  blocks  from 
here.  Half  an  hour  suffices.” 

He  pushed  back  his  chair.  She’s  insistent  but 
she  can’t  trap  me.  I  have  no  time  for  that  sort  of 
thing — to  say  nothing  of  the  expense  it  would  in¬ 
volve.  Where  the  devil  is  Miss  Elliot? 

Amy  fastened  the  fur  collar  of  her  coat.  “I  won’t 
keep  you  any  longer,”  she  said.  “Will  you  take  my 
address?” 

Daniel  picked  up  her  card  from  the  desk  and 
wrote  her  street  number  under  the  old-fashioned 
script.  “I  daresay  it’s  no  use  giving  you  my  tele¬ 
phone  number,”  she  said,  “since  you  would  not  use 
it.” 

“I’m  sorry,”  said  Daniel.  “I’m  a  busy  man  and 
cant  waste  time  on  either  social  amenities  or  gal¬ 
lantries.”  Better  be  frank  in  the  first  place.  Other¬ 
wise  she’ll  be  telephoning  me  to  leave  work  and  come 
to  tea.  No  wonder  some  women  don’t  get  on  in 
their  careers.  They  have  too  much  time  on  their 
hands.  I  suppose  she’d  like  to  have  me  running  in 
at  odd  moments  for  a  bit  of  gossip — or  to  aid  her 
maiden  efforts  in  literature.  She’s  offended.  Biting 
her  lip. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


41 


“And  rude,”  Amy  said.  “Don’t  forget  to  add  that 
while  you’re  describing  yourself.  Goodbye.  And 
thank  you  for  your  trouble.  I’ll  tell  Dr.  Edwards 
you  are  to  give  me  an  opinion  later  ”  Without  of¬ 
fering  her  hand  she  walked  toward  the  door. 

Damn!  Now  she  will  tell  him  I  was  rude  to 
her.  “Forgive  me,”  he  said,  following.  “I  have  to 
be  stern  with  myself  and  focus  every  thought  on 
the  office  for  the  next  few  months.  If  I  don’t — 
well,  someone  else  may  be  sitting  in  that  chair.” 

Amy  stopped  and,  turning,  held  out  her  hand. 
“The  American  business  man!  A  curious  type. 
Do  you  think  he’ll  survive  ?  I  warn  you  that  you’ll 
lose  interest  in  life  before  you’re  fifty  if  you  work 
at  this  unreasoning  speed.”  Still  pressing  his  hand 
she  smiled. 

Sharp  little  teeth.  Like  a  baby  tigress.  Lucky 
I’m  not  susceptible.  She’s  an  insidious  drink  for 
any  man.  Her  heady  scent — more  dangerous  than 
bullets — 

“You’re  wanted  at  a  conference,  Mr.  Geer.” 

“Thank  you,  Miss  Elliot.”  He  released  Amy’s 
hand.  Hope  Miss  Elliot  didn’t  see.  She’s  been 
crying.  I  spoke  roughly — bad  tempered  today. 
That  little  sneak  last  night  did  it. 

“Goodbye,  Mr.  Geer.” 

He  held  the  door  open  for  Amy  and  watched  her 
walk  away  from  him  through  the  city  room,  intent 
only  upon  her  steps  and  the  door  before  her.  Walks 
as  if  conscious  she’s  better  born  than  the  rest.  I’m 


42 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


sure  she’s  not  so  simple  as  her  manner.  Back  in  her 
head  something  is  constantly  on  the  watch,  cal¬ 
culating,  counting  this  exchanged  for  that.  Many 
men  would  have  been  knocking  at  her  door  tonight. 
Not  I.  The  result  is  too  clear.  My  blood  fevered 
for  weeks  by  pursuit,  my  hours  split  and  scattered, 
coming  and  going  as  in  a  dream,  flowers,  dinners, 
lessons  in  journalese  and  at  the  end,  “Oh,  don’t, 
Mr.  Geer !”  as  usual. 

He  sat  down  at  his  desk.  Behind  with  everything 
today.  Glass  of  milk  here  for  luncheon.  Wonder 
can  Micky  find  a  hot  roast  beef  sandwich.  Don’t 
forget  deposit  for  knife  and  fork.  That  perfume 
still  hanging  in  the  air.  Made  in  Grasse,  probably. 
I  must  go  there  to  see  the  flower  gardens  set  high 
above  the  Mediterranean.  Millions  of  pounds  of 
petals  used  every  year.  Narcissi,  mimosa,  orange 
blossoms,  tuberoses,  violets,  lilacs.  Women  working 
knee-deep  in  flowers.  Any  admirer  that  brings 
them  a  bouquet  probably  receives  it  back  between 
the  eyes.  I  wonder  what  kind  of  thing  she  has  set 
down  in  that  little  book.  Haven’t  time  now.  Might 
glance  at  a  page,  though. 

He  pulled  the  notebook  from  its  pigeon-hole.  Red, 
supple  leather.  Pleasure  to  touch  good  leather.  Silk 
raises  my  gooseflesh. 

Mes  Pensees 

. .  Quelques  Essais  sur  la  Vie 

Un  Poeme 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


43 


And  she  wants  to  get  on  a  newspaper !  Headlines 
for  her  stuff  in  French.  Trainer,  engage  a  special 
copy-reader  for  the  new  society  girl  reporter.  One 
who  can  rhyme  headlines  preferred.  Drape  her  desk 
in  pink  satin  and  serve  tea  every  day  at  four-thirty 
sharp.  Page  i.  Clear  firm  handwriting.  Knows 
her  own  mind,  that  girl.  Pensee  number  one. 

Pierrot  the  Scientist 

Under  the  albescent  moon 
Pierrot  poses 
Regarding  the  silver  disk. 

Green  beams  swim  through  his  fingers, 

“Come  Pierrot,  dance  with  me!” 

“No,  Columbine.  Tonight  I  study 
The  moon  and  her  ways 
And  count - ” 

Pensee  one  doesn’t  seem  to  amount  to  much.  I’ll 
tell  her  what  I  think  of  vers  fibre.  Pensee  two. 

Dusk  Falls  on  Palo 

Crooked  rows  of  bamboo  huts,  their  shadows  blurred 
by  fine  dust.  Brown  bodies  bending  to  fight  night  fires 
beneath  the  shacks.  From  the  muddy  river  come  the 
carabao,  led  by  naked  children.  They  cry  shrilly,  “Cadi 
dao!”  “Ayao!”  “Uaray  hin  adlao,  tatay!”  “Damun 
tubig  ini  nga  gabi!”  It  is  the  rainy  season  and  the 
river  has  risen,  flooding  the  rice-fields.  Women,  muddy 
to  their  hips,  wade  out  from  the  rows  of  green  shoots 


44 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


and  go  to  the  river  to  bathe.  A  guitar  begins  a  plaintive 
song.  Domingo  is  courting  Hermosa.  She  listens, 
drawing  smoke  from  a  cigar  as  long  as  her  sister’s 
baby.  He  does  not  like  to  work  but  he  has  curly  hair 
and  after  all  her  little  shop  of  betel-nuts  and  fish  brings 

in  enough  for  two.  So  perhaps -  The  sun  has  gone 

and  now  the  fires  smoulder  and  give  out  a  thick,  suffo¬ 
cating  smoke  which  mosquitoes  are  supposed  not  to 
like.  The  villagers  withdraw  into  the  huts  to  squat 
about  the  evening  meal  of  rice  and  fish.  Only  the 
most  daring  suitors  will  go  out  after  nightfall  for 
there  is  danger.  The  evil  spirit,  Assuan,  who  perches 
like  a  bird  in  the  branches  of  the  ylang-ylang  tree  will 
fall  upon  the  backs  of  the  fool-hardy  as  they  pass  and 
by  his  touch  steal  away  their  wits  forever. 

Well,  that’s  average  newspaper  stuff.  Where  is 
Palo?  She  must  have  gone  there  on  those  vague 
travels  she  spoke  about.  Pensee  three. 

Sea  Foam 

The  sea  whispers  to  me  at  dawn.  Foam  like  lace - 

I  don’t  seem  to  be  finding  out  much  about  Miss 
Amy  Fiske’s  real  thoughts.  I  might  have  known 
she’d  be  too  canny  to  turn  them  over  to  me.  Little 
fox.  A  man  would  wait  months  to  discover  what 
lay  back  of  those  mysterious  eyes.  Pensee  four. 

The  Delusion  of  Love 

Love  is  like  snow.  You  can’t  touch  it  without  spoil¬ 
ing  its  beauty. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


45 


Love  is  like  a  sunset.  As  you  gaze  it  disappears. 

Love  is  a  man’s  game.  A  woman  plays  only  to  lose. 

A  man  says,  “Love  me - ” 

Aha !  So  she’s  been  bitten !  Those  were  shadows 
of  the  past  I  saw  in  her  eyes.  It  left  a  taste  of 
aloes  and  a  leaning  toward  cheap  epigrams.  Leave 
epigrams  to  the  epigrammists,  I  must  tell  her. 
Perhaps  she’s  been  bitten  more  than  once.  Red  hair 
is  seldom  left  unwooed  and  she  didn’t  acquire  that 
hardness  from  occupying  an  observer’s  bench. 
Hardness  and  red  hair.  Not  a  conventional  com¬ 
bination.  Tradition  teaches  otherwise.  Except 
Queen  Elizabeth.  Or  was  it  only  her  wigs  that  were 
red?  Red  hair  neglected  by  artists.  There’s  Ros¬ 
setti.  And  Henner.  Well,  he’s  scarcely  an  artist. 
More  like  a  plumber’s  ideal  of  a  New  Year’s  cal¬ 
endar.  Titian’s  women  not  really  red-haired.  A 
pity  Botticelli  never  departed  from  his  yellow  gold- 
streaked  manes.  What  ruddy  aromatic  masses  he 
would  have  painted,  more  alive  than  the  serpents 
that  grew  from  Medusa! 

He  closed  the  notebook  and  pressed  a  buzzer. 
Now  to  close  the  incident  of  Miss  Amy  Fiske.  I’ll 
send  old  Rufus  a  note,  too,  explaining  that  dinner 
Thursday  night.  I  can  ask  him  about  her  family. 
He’s  always  informed  about  blue  strains  in  the  blood 
and  heraldic  bearings. 

Miss  Elliot  came  in,  sat  down  in  the  chair  by 
Daniel’s  side  and  snapped  an  elastic  about  her  open 


46 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


notebook.  She  held  her  shoulders  erect  and  pressed 
her  elbows  rigidly  into  her  sides.  Her  eyelids  were 
swollen. 

“No  address  for  this  letter,”  said  Daniel.  “It’s 
to  go  by  messenger  in  a  package.  By  the  way,  Miss 
Elliot,  take  Saturday  afternoon  off  if  you  like.  I 
meant  to  tell  you.” 

Miss  Elliot,  sucking  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
maintained  an  offended  silence. 

Sullen  little  beast.  Sorry  I  offered.  She  ought 
to  know  it’s  give  and  take  in  an  office.  I’ve  half  a 
mind  to  get  a  male  stenographer  in  here.  I  need  a 
man  to  swear  at  sometimes. 

“I  don’t  want  any  favors — only  civil  treatment,” 
she  said  suddenly. 

“This  letter  is  to  Miss  Amy  Fiske,”  began  Daniel. 
“Fiske  with  an  e.”  I’m  not  going  to  discuss  my 
conduct  with  her — not  if  she  floods  this  room  with 
her  grief.  If  she  doesn’t  like  her  job  she’s  free  to 
resign  and  work  for  some  soothing  syrup  manu¬ 
facturer. 

“My  dear  Miss  Fiske,”  he  dictated.  “I  am 
teturning  your  notebook  by  messenger.  I  am  not 
a  judge  of  vers  libre  which  I  detest  but  the  Palo 
sketch  isn’t  half  bad.  It  shows  me  that  with  training 
there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  qualify  for  a 
position  on  a  newspaper.  I  did  not  read  the  Essays 
on  Life  so  cannot  comment.  As  for  epigrams  I 
advise  you  to  leave  that  art  to  a  more  seasoned 
observer.  The  satire  of  twenty,  however  bitter, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


47 


has  no  bite.  Paragraph.  I  should  advise  you  to 
study  the  various  newspapers  so  that  you  will  be 
prepared  to  acquit  yourself  well  on  whichever  of 
our  dailies  you  may  finally  coax  to  let  you  try  your 
wings.  The  best  of  luck  to  you  and  my  regards  to 
Dr.  Edwards.  If  at  any  time  there  should  be  an 
opening  here  I  will  communicate  with  you.  Very 
truly — no,  sincerely — yours.  Please  type  that  at 
once,  Miss  Elliot,  and  call  a  messenger.” 

Miss  Elliot  left  the  room  and  Daniel  took  up  his 
mail.  Why  do  I  want  to  hurt  that  girl  by  sending 
back  her  book  within  the  hour?  I  don’t  know.  It’s 
like  an  instinct  to  defend  myself.  I  dislike  her  type. 
Feline.  Watching  her  own  safety  while  planning  to 
spring.  Carmen  with  her  “Garde  d  toi”  was  more 
honest. 

He  opened  a  letter.  '‘Managing  Editor.  Dear 
Sir.”  More  syndicate  stuff  to  draw  feminine  read¬ 
ers  .  Does  the  modern  woman  want  a  business  man 
or  a  charming  companion  for  a  mate?  What  would 
you  do  if  your  husband  came  home  with  a  blue 
garter  in  his  pocket?  Should  wives  tell  all?  Rub¬ 
bish  !  I  can’t  wade  through  it. 

He  took  up  the  red  leather  book  again. 

Quelques  Essais  sur  la  Vie.  Inscrutable  cold  eyes 
with  green  lights.  Even  the  book  is  perfumed.  She 
said  I  was  rude.  I  daresay  I  am — according  to  her 
pink-tea  standards.  Should  I  ask  her  to  luncheon  to 
discuss  her  future?  No,  I’ll  be  damned  if  I  will.  The 
incident  is  closed.  Goodbye,  Mona  Lisa! 


IV 


Daniel  walked  up  three  flights  of  stairs,  mouldy 
retainers  of  the  odors  of  dinners,  long  since  digested 
and  separated  into  force  and  fertilizer.  During 
eight  interminable  years  I  climbed  here  three  times  a 
day.  A  total  of — three  times  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five.  My  salary  averaged  say  $30  a  week. 
That’s  about  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  climb.  Curious 
to  know  every  dust-filled  crack  and  yet  to  feel  like  a 
stranger  who  searches  timorously  for  an  unfamiliar 
door.  The  bell  must  be  out  of  order.  I  suppose 
father  has  been  poking  into  the  batteries  again. 
Sunday  dinners  simmering  behind  all  these  doors. 
I  hope  mother’s  not  cooking  cabbage.  No,  across 
the  hall. 

Mrs.  Geer  opened  the  door,  drying  her  hands  on 
her  apron.  “I  thought  that  would  be  you  knocking, 
Dan,”  she  said.  She  pulled  down  his  head.  “The 
bell’s  broken.  Your  pa — ” 

“Who’s  at  the  door,  Annie?” 

She  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips  and  made  a  -backward 
motion  with  her  head.  “He’s  real  cross  today. 
Don’t  rile  him,  son.” 

“It’s  I,  father,”  Daniel  called  and  crossed  the 
hall  into  the  parlor. 


48 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


49 

“What  are  you  whispering  out  there  for?”  de¬ 
manded  Mr.  Geer  from  his  armchair. 

“Nothing,  pa,”  said  Mrs.  Geer.  “Just  telling  Dan 
we’re  glad  he  could  come  over  today.” 

“How  are  you,  father  ?” 

“Fine  as  silk.  How  else  should  I  he?  Your  ma 
likes  to  fret  about  me  because  I  stay  in  the  house  this 
cold  weather.  I  tell  her  I  ain’t  an  Esquimau.”  He 
held  out  the  book  that  had  been  resting  on  his  knees. 
“Maybe  I  didn’t  get  to  church  but  I’m  doing  my  duty 
at  home.  More  than  the  rest  of  you  can  say.  Better 
listen  to  a  chapter,  Dan.  The  Lord  said  T  will  be 
exalted  among  the  heathen.’  ” 

Daniel,  taking  off  his  coat,  did  not  reply. 

“Say,  Dan,  what’s  that  you’ve  got  there  ?  Another 
new  coat?  Here,  let  me  see  it.” 

“It’s  only  the  coat  I  bought  last  fall,  father,”  said 
Daniel.  “The  first  in  six  years.” 

“What  was  the  matter  with  your  old  coat?  Not 
a  hole  in  it,  was  there?  I  suppose  it  wasn’t 
good  enough  for  your  new  job  in  New  York, 
eh?” 

“I’ll  finish  getting  dinner,  pa,”  said  Mrs.  Geer. 
“You  talk  to  Dan  and  see  he  has  a  pleasant  visit.” 
She  nodded  meaningly  at  her  husband  and  passed 
through  the  door,  calling  back,  “Ruthie  and  Andy 
are  coming  over  this  afternoon.” 

“Don’t  count  on  me  for  supper,  mother.  I  have 
to  get  back  early.”  He  took  his  coat  and  hat  into 
the  hall  and  hung  them  on  the  rack  beside  his 


50 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


father’s  old  hats.  I  can’t  stand  an  afternoon  of 
Andrew’s  vulgarities  and  the  three  reproductions 
climbing  over  me.  And  father’s  bad  temper  poison¬ 
ing  the  air.  I’ll  take  the  rest  of  my  holiday  in 
solitude  with  Pausanius.  There’s  mother  coaxing 
me  to  stay.  The  dullest  people  are  always  the  most 
persistent.  And  when  they’re  your  family  only  lies 
can  free  you. 

He  walked  back  into  the  parlor,  treading  on  the 
carpet  brought  from  the  home  of  his  childhood. 
I’ve  watered  it,  pulled  the  nap  from  its  rosebuds 
and  worn  it  with  my  knees.  It’s  ready  to  be  scrapped 
— like  the  old  man  there.  He  sat  down  at  the  win¬ 
dow.  His  father’s  chin  rested  on  his  chest  and  his 
eyes  were  closed.  Asleep.  Well,  I’d  rather  hear  him 
breathe  than  talk.  Sleep,  the  solace  of  age  and  the 
thief  of  youth.  One-third  of  our  lives  passed  in 
gaining  force  to  go  on  living.  Nature  cheats  us 
grievously  and  we  thank  her  for  her  kindly  gift. 
If  I  live  to  be  sixty  I  shall  have  had  but  forty 
years  of  real  life.  Unconsciousness  isn’t  living. 
Dreams  don’t  count.  Father’s  face  drawn  and  blue 
about  the  eyes.  A  cracked  and  senile  vase.  Does  he 
ever  think  of  the  man  that  begot  me?  Or  does  he 
reflect  only  on  a  grave  soon  to  be  dug  ?  The  shadow 
of  that  charcoal  portrait  of  him  up  there.  He  used 
to  lift  me  up  to  look  at  it.  When  I  began  to  tell  my 
thoughts  he  turned  to  Ruth  and  gave  her  the  ortho¬ 
doxy  I  refused.  My  Haeckel  and  his  Bible.  Smells 
like  roast  beef.  I’ll  have  a  rare  slice  from  the 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


51 

middle.  Hope  mother  remembers  I  like  salad.  I’d 
better  go  out  and  talk  to  her. 

He  went  through  the  hall  into  the  kitchen. 

“What  is  it,  Dan?  Is  your  pa — ” 

“Asleep.  He  doesn’t  seem  very  strong.” 

“I’m  worried  about  him.  He  drops  off  like  that 
all  the  time.”  She  straightened  up  from  the  stove 
and  looked  at  Daniel  with  troubled  tired  eyes.  “I 
got  him  a  tonic  but  he  won’t  take  it.  By  the  way, 
Dan,  I  need  a  new  ice-box.  That  old  one  leaks  and 
it’s  hard  to  empty.” 

Daniel  sat  down  and  brought  out  his  check  book 
and  fountain  pen.  “I’ll  give  you  your  check  for 
next  month.  Rent,  ice-box,  expenses — and  the  clock 
and  door  bell,  too.” 

“Don’t  forget  the  insurance,  Dan.” 

“I  don’t  forget  things,  mother.  You  don’t  have 
to  go  on  reminding  me.” 

“No,  you’re  a  good  boy,  Dan.”  She  went  to  him 
and  kissed  his  cheek  awkwardly. 

He  stood  up  and  moved  away  from  her.  Worn 
and  musty — like  the  carpet.  Poor  mother.  Emptied 
of  emotion  she  has  only  habit  and  her  reflexes.  The 
new  ice-box  takes  the  place  with  her  of  the  star  on 
the  Christmas  tree,  the  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rain¬ 
bow. 

“Go  on  back  and  read,  Dan.  I  know  you  don’t 
like  the  kitchen.”  She  broke  some  eggs  into  a  bowl 
and  he  watched  the  brown,  knotted  fingers. 

“Will  you  have  dinner  ready  soon?  I’ve  brought 


52 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


an  appetite  whetted  by  restaurants.  No  cooking  like 
yours  in  New  York.” 

“If  you  like  my  cooking  you’d  better  come  back 
home  where  you  belong,”  she  said. 

He  returned  to  the  parlor.  Father  still  sleeping. 
As  intent  on  his  vest  buttons  as  a  Hindoo  in  um¬ 
bilical  contemplation.  Suspend  their  animation  at 
will.  Don’t  believe  it.  Lie  entombed  for  three  days 
and  come  out  demanding  breakfast.  Send  their 
astral  bodies  to  the  North  Pole.  Safe  enough,  they 
claim,  as  long  as  no  one  cuts  the  connection.  That 
babu  who  wrote  a  book  exposing  them  was  found 
in  a  shallow  pond.  Give  me  the  dervishes,  dancing 
or  howling.  Their  pretences  less  hypocritical. 

He  drew  out  a  book  from  the  shelves  between  the 
windows.  New?  No,  only  an  old  one  without  its 
cover.  History  of  the  Civil  War.  Lincoln  the  only 
admiration  father  and  I  ever  had  in  common.  He’s 
been  arranging  things  here,  I  see.  A  segregation 
has  taken  place  and  his  books  are  on  the  top  shelf. 
World’s  Almanac,  Famous  Battles,  Life  of  General 
Grant,  a  space  for  the  Bible,  Mistakes  of  Congress, 
In  His  Steps,  Darwin  the  Madman,  the  Old  Testa¬ 
ment  Atlas,  Wicked  Women  of  History,  The  Family 
Physician.  Mother’s  books  next.  Science  and 
Health,  Mothers  of  Great  Men,  Ivanhoe,  Complete 
Works  of  William  Cullen  Bryant,  When  Knight¬ 
hood  Was  in  Flower,  Samantha  at  Saratoga,  A 
Missionary  in  Old  Nippon.  Ruth’s  books.  How  to 
Tell  the  Wild  Birds,  David  Copperfield,  The  Wide, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


53 


Wide,  World,  Stories  from  the  Bible,  Little  Women, 
Tales  from  Shakespeare,  Janice  Meredith,  First 
Year  Algebra,  the  Family  Song  Book.  And  my 
discards  at  the  bottom. 

He  took  up  a  book  and  looked  at  the  title  page. 
Daniel  Boone  Geer,  December  25,  1903.  Merry 
Christmas.  My  China  Coast  Pirates.  With  a  yell 
that  curdled  Tom’s  blood  the  crew  of  yellow  savages 
swept  down  the  deck,  their  pig-tails  between  their 
teeth.  Even  today  that  story  unwinds  in  my  brain 
as  if  I  had  seen  it  in  a  moving  picture,  its  events 
more  real  to  me  than  all  the  sodden  years  I  lived 
here.  Clive  in  India,  Round  the  World  in  Eighty 
Days,  From  Earth  to  the  Moon,  Huckleberry  Finn, 
Beginner’s  Chemistry,  Physics  and  Astronomy. 
And  here’s  the  Book  of  Etiquette  in  honor  of  my 
first  dance.  My  debut  into  society  where  I  danced 
with  the  butcher’s  daughter  and  the  postman’s  wife. 
Today  I  can  send  away  Miss  Amy  Fiske  of  the 
Boston  haut  monde  and  refuse  the  dinner  to  Dr. 
Rufus  Edwards  whose  family  tree  has  a  tail  as  long 
as  our  cat’s.  Here’s  my  old  brown  notebook — notes 
and  sketches  on  alfalfa  fields,  canals,  sluice  gates.  If 
it  hadn’t  been  for  Harry  Steele  I  would  have  gone 
out  west.  Instead  of  talk  about  which  paper  was  left 
when  the  big  divorce  broke  I  should  be  hearing  how 
old  man  Jones  was  caught  with  his  gates  open  after 
his  time  was  up.  Stealing  news — stealing  water. 

“Daniel !”  His  mother’s  voice  from  the  kitchen. 

“Yes,  mother.” 


54 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Mr.  Geer  lifted  his  head.  “ Ain't  dinner  ready?  I 
suppose  you  like  to  have  it  late — like  your  stylish 
friends  in  New  York.” 

“Mother  is  calling  us  now,”  said  Daniel.  He  held 
out  his  hand  to  his  father  but  Mr.  Geer  ignored  it 
and  pulled  himself  out  of  his  chair  with  jerking 
muscles.  Daniel  followed  him  into  the  kitchen  and 
sat  down  in  his  old  place  by  the  window,  his 
back  to  the  array  of  mattresses  and  drying  cloths 
across  the  court.  Mr.  Geer,  knife  and  fork  already 
in  hand,  watched  his  wife  take  a  roast  from  the 
oven. 

“Roast  pork,  Dan,”  she  said  as  she  placed  it 
before  him.  “There’s  the  carving  knife  in  front  of 
you.  I  thought  you’d  like  a  good  solid  roast  for 
Sunday.” 

“If  he  don’t  like  it  there’s  no  call  for  him  to  eat 
it,  Annie,”  said  Mr.  Geer,  passing  his  tongue  over 
his  lips.  “He  ought  to  be  glad  to  get  home  cooking 
once  in  a  while.” 

“Indeed  I  am,”  said  Daniel,  carving.  “I  was 
telling  mother  a  little  while  ago — ” 

“If  your  appetite’s  getting  fussy  you  can  wait 
till  you  get  back  to  New  York,”  continued  Mr.  Geer, 
holding  out  his  plate. 

“Just  a  moment — this  is  for  mother,”  said 
Daniel. 

“You  give  it  to  me.  Your  ma’s  not  ready  yet,” 
snapped  Mr.  Geer.  “She’s  got  the  potatoes  to  bring 
— and  the  apple  sauce.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


55 

“Help  your  pa  and  start  in  yourself,  Dan,”  said 
his  mother.  “I’ll  be  there  in  a  minute.” 

“Yes,  mother.”  I  must  keep  my  temper.  After 
all,  I  needn’t  come  again  for  a  month.  Lust  for 
food  the  only  eager  appetite  retained  by  the  old. 
He  eats  like  an  animal  that  fears  a  theft  from  its 
moving  jaws.  Curious  that  I’m  half  of  him.  That 
in  me  lies  his  greed,  shrewdness,  injustice.  From 
her  the  impulse  away  from  the  sordid  and  a  recep¬ 
tivity  toward  the  unknown. 

“Sugar  your  apple  sauce  if  I  ain’t  made  it  sweet 
enough,  pa.  How  is  it,  Danny?” 

“The  only  official  apple  sauce.  I  commend  it  to 
the  Bureau  of  Standards,”  said  Daniel. 

“Talk  English  or  shut  up,”  said  Mr.  Geer.  “I’ll 
have  another  piece  of  pork.” 

Daniel  took  up  the  serving  fork.  The  mystery  of 
the  passing  down  of  traits.  Some  of  them  develop 
actively  and  you  are  known  by  them.  Others  you 
hold  in  your  seed  and  they  pass  through  your  un¬ 
awareness  into  beings  you  will  never  see.  Father 
and  mother  have  made  me  custodian  of  all  the  mil¬ 
lions  that  were  their  combined  ancestry.  Unknown 
warriors,  sailors,  dreamers,  priestesses,  chieftains, 
nomads,  artisans,  herdsmen — 

“More  potatoes,  pa?” 

“Yes — and  gravy.” 

Daniel  held  the  dish  towards  him.  “Here  you  are, 
father.”  Each  generation  holds  within  it  the 
characteristics  of  every  being  who  has  propagated 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


56 

through  the  ages.  In  me  lies  embedded  unconscious 
memories  that  I  may  never  summon.  Memories  of 
the  thrill  of  first  life;  of  fear  of  the  elements  that 
was  the  beginning  of  religion;  of  labored  cunning 
that  saved  man  from  the  fate  of  the  mammoths ;  of 
that  insane  ecstacy  beasts  know  when  they  smell 
blood — lost  to  men  forever. 

“How’s  everything  going  at  the  office,  Dan?” 

“Fine,  mother.” 

“Do  you  think  it’s  permanent?” 

“No  reason  why  it  shouldn’t  be.  They  won’t  find 
many  men  who  will  give  them  the  time  and  thought 
that  I  do.” 

His  father  leaned  across  to  him,  impaling  his 
attention  with  his  fork.  “Horw  much  are  they  giving 
you,  Dan?” 

“Not  so  much  now  as  later  on.”  He  began  to  eat 
the  broken  piece  of  bread  he  had  been  crumbling 
beside  his  plate.  I  knew  this  would  come  up  again. 
He’ll  never  be  satisfied  until  he  finds  out. 

“How  much  a  week?”  insisted  Mr.  Geer,  rapping 
his  plate  with  his  fork. 

“Enough  for  the  rent,  father.  Don’t  worry.  I’d 
always  see  you’re  taken  care  of — you  and  mother.” 

Mr.  Geer  looked  across  at  his  wife.  “What  did 
I  tell  you,  ma?  It  ain’t  natural  of  him.  Andy  and 
Ruth  say  the  same.” 

“I  wish  you  wouldn’t  discuss  my  private  affairs 
with  anyone,  father,”  said  Daniel. 

“Private  affairs?  They’re  your  family,  ain’t 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


57 


they?  They  got  a  right  to  say  what  they  think, 
ain’t  they  ?  The  last  time  Andy  was  here  to  see  us 
he  said  wait  till  he  was  earning  as  much  as  you  and 
he’d  take  a  bigger  apartment  for  us  downstairs.” 
Mr.  Geer  leaned  back  and  smiled  triumphantly. 

“Shame,  pa !”  said  Mrs.  Geer  with  trembling  lips. 
“After  all  Dan  has  done  for  us !” 

“He’s  only  done  his  Christian  duty  like  a  son 
should  for  his  parents.  Honor  thy  father  and 
mother,  says  the  Good  Book.” 

“Dan’s  got  his  future  to  think  of.  He  must  put 
by  a  little  something  every  week.  Sickness  can 
happen  to  anybody.  Or  he  might  want  to  get  mar¬ 
ried.” 

“The  natural  state  of  man  ain’t  for  Dan,  ma. 
More  likely  he’ll  break  loose  and  go  sporting  around 
New  York  with  some  actress — ” 

“Pa!  Now  you  just  eat  your  dinner  and  don’t 
say  another  word!”  Mrs.  Geer  left  the  table  and 
went  to  the  stove. 

Daniel  drank  a  glass  of  water.  The  sanctity  of 
family  life.  The  sweet  inter-relationship  that  is  the 
backbone  of  the  nation.  In  every  unit  the  victims 
writhe  among  their  chains,  each  seeking  to  reinforce 
the  bonds  of  the  strongest  member  so  that  he  may 
;not  escape  to  liberty.  A  foot  on  his  neck,  a  hand 
searching  in  his  pockets  and  translations  from  the 
Hebrew  tribal  documents  ringing  in  his  ears. 
Father’s  smiling  to  himself  as  if  he  had  gained  a 
victory  over  me. 


58 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Mrs.  Geer  came  to  the  table  and  began  to  clear 
away.  A  flush  was  on  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  were 
wet.  Her  faded  house  dress  fitted  tightly  over  thin, 
stooped  shoulders  and  showed  a  nest  of  darns  near 
the  arm-holes.  She  put  down  clean  plates  and 
brought  the  dessert.  When  she  sat  down  she  made 
a  sign  to  Daniel.  “Dropped  off  again,”  she 
whispered. 

Both  watched  the  old  man’s  face — wrinkled  eye¬ 
lids  trembling  and  the  tight  mouth  like  Daniel’s  still 
holding  a  smug  smile  of  satisfaction. 

“The  good  of  a  night’ s  sleep  don’t  last  him 
through  the  morning.  Did  you  notice  the  two 
hats  on  the  hall  rack?  I  keep  them  there  in  case 
burglars  should  come — might  scare  them  off.” 

“You’d  better  put  my  cane  there,  too,”  said  Mr. 
Geer  suddenly.  His  wife  jumped.  “I  thought  you 
was  asleep,  pa,”  she  said. 

“Another  good  idea  would  be  to  pull  Moody  off 
his  beat  and  stand  him  by  the  door  to  protect  you,” 
Mr.  Geer  went  on.  “I  don’t  know  what’s  got  into 
your  ma,  Dan.  She  tries  to  aggravate  me  every 
way  she  can  think  of  from  morning  till  night. 
Suppose  you  pass  that  pie  over  here,  Annie,  and 
stop  complaining  of  me  to  Dan.” 

Mrs.  Geer  cut  the  pie.  Her  face  quivered  and 
presently  she  pulled  up  her  apron  and  sobbed  into  its 
stains. 

Daniel  pushed  back  his  chair  and  walked  out. 
He  went  into  the  little  room  that  had  been  his 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


59 


and  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  street  lay  below 
covered  with  dust  and  patches  of  dirty  snow.  What 
was  that  epigram  Amy  Fiske  wrote  about  love  and 
snow?  I  daresay  the  domestic  wrangling  in  her 
home  was  as  hot  as  anywhere  else  but  probably 
smoothed  over  with  good  manners.  My  background 
would  repel  her.  If  she  could  see  it  she  would  feel 
scorn  and  shame  for  me. 

He  turned  to  survey  the  room — a  narrow  iron 
bed,  a  washstand  whose  yellow  surface  was  scarred 
by  the  eventualities  of  thirty  years,  a  lame  brown 
chair  and  strip  of  soiled  matting,  unravelled  along  its 
edges.  Offered  for  purpose  of  comparison  with 
the  pink  satin  boudoir  of  Miss  Amy  Fiske — bath 
connecting,  .bell  summons  maid,  ice-water,  ice-cream, 
hairdresser,  ticket  to  Europe  or  a  choice  of  suitable, 
fancy  husbands.  Wonder  why  she  didn’t  take  one? 

A  pasteboard  box  lay  on  the  washstand  under  the 
pitcher’s  broken  nose.  Daniel,  passing,  stopped  to 
lift  the  cover.  My  collection  of  actresses  from 
cigarette  boxes.  So  father’s  been  dipping  into  the 
old  table  drawer  and  casting  out  the  goats.  That’s 
where  he  got  the  idea  of  my  sporting  around  New 
York  with  an  actress.  The  photograph  of  a  Sun¬ 
day  school  picnic.  There  I  am,  a  solemn  thin  boy 
on  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  By  me  Minnie,  long  since 
dropped  into  dust,  shouting  that  day  for  campestral 
delights.  She  ate  a  lemon  pie  to  the  last  crumb — 
mother  baked  it  for  Ruth  and  me.  Here’s  a  tooth. 
Mine?  I  don’t  know.  Perhaps  Ruth’s.  The  day 


6o 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


she  came  home  crying  from  the  dentist’s.  He  had 
shown  her  a  dirty  book  and  tried  to  kiss  her.  Father 
ran  down  there  blazing — 

“Danny?”  His  mother  opened  the  door.  “Go 
in  the  parlor.  It’s  too  cold  for  you  in  here.”  She 
looked  at  the  hed  and  sighed.  “I  saved  the  night¬ 
shirts  you  left  behind.  You  may  want  them  some¬ 
time.  Your  pa  won’t  wear  any  but  flannel.” 

“I  shan’t  want  them,  mother.  I  prefer  pajamas.” 

“Well,  I  suppose  I  can  use  them  for  cleaning.  But 
somehow  I  don’t  feel  a  man  is  really  undressed  if 
he’s  got  on  pajamas.” 

Daniel  went  into  the  parlor,  drawing  out  his 
watch.  Half-past  two.  He  looked  at  the  black 
marble  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  bought  at  an 
auction  with  the  money  he  had  given  his  mother  for 
Christmas.  The  hands  pointed  to  five  minutes  past 
nine.  Father’s  destructive  touch.  Now  he’s  pre¬ 
tending  he  didn’t  hear  me  come  in.  Mother’s 
brought  out  that  stuffed  pigeon  again.  I  meant 
to  throw  it  away.  Yet  it’s  no  worse  than  that 
plaster  Cupid  by  the  clock.  Or  that  dried  pampas 
grass.  Exhibit  two  for  Miss  Amy  Fiske  and  her 
Boston  drawing  room. 

Mrs.  Geer  came  in  and  picked  up  a  newspaper 
from  the  floor.  “You  all  right,  Dan?”  she  asked. 
“Ruthie  ought  to  be  here  any  minute  now.  She’s 
late,  I  guess,  with  her  Sunday  dinner.” 

“I  must  start  back  soon,”  he  said.  “You  know 
newspapers  appear  on  Monday  as  on  all  other  days.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


61 


“What  did  you  come  at  all  for  if  you  run  away 
as  soon  as  you  get  your  stomach  full?”  said  Mr. 
Geer. 

His  wife’s  eyes  clouded  as  they  appealed  to  Daniel. 

“Why  do  you  put  out  that  disreputable  bird, 
mother?”  said  Daniel,  turning  his  back  to  his  father. 

“Oh,  I  don’t  know.  It  brought  back  the  old  days, 
I  guess.  You  had  such  a  good  time  working  over 
it.” 

“I  remember,”  spoke  up  Mr.  Geer.  The  amiability 
of  his  voice  turned  their  heads  to  him  in  astonish¬ 
ment.  “You  were  just  a  little  shaver — not  fourteen, 
was  he,  ma?  You  wanted  to  be  a  taxidermist  when 
you  grew  up.  Guess  you’re  glad  you  changed  your 
mind.  I  never  fancied  my  boy  being  in  the  business 
of  stuffing  dead  animals.”  He  waggled  his  head 
and  laughed  to  himself,  his  amusement  giving  back 
to  him  for  the  moment  a  likeness  to  the  charcoal 
portrait  above  his  head.  “You  remember  old  man 
Lawson,  Dan?  His  boy  ran  for  alderman  this  last 
election.” 

Mrs.  Geer  lifted  her  hand.  “I  hear  them  coming 
up  the  stairs.  Don’t  forget,  Dan.  Not  a  word  to 
Ruthie  that  you  know — ”  She  went  into  the  hall, 
walking  with  awkward  uneven  steps. 

Daniel  waited  for  his  father  to  continue  but  the 
communicative  mood  had  passed.  His  thick  eye¬ 
brows  were  pulled  together  in  a  frown. 

“Andy’s  a  good  boy,  a  good  boy,”  he  said,  eyes  on 
the  door.  “Brings  home  his  pay  envelope  to  Ruthie 


62 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


as  reg’lar  as  clockwork.  No  secrets  from  anybody.’ * 

Daniel  walked  to  the  window.  Disagreeable  old 
bore.  What  he  wants  is  to  live  in  style  at  my 
expense  to  show  his  neighbors  what  a  successful 
son  he  bred.  Not  much  you  don’t,  you  old  leech. 
Here  you  stay  and  live  until  you  die  and  no  amount 
of  bad  temper  will  pull  another  cent  out  of  me. 
There’s  Ruth’s  meek  voice,  Andrew’s  guffaw  and 
the  whining  of  the  three  replicas.  I’ll  get  the  greet¬ 
ings  over  and  depart  for  the  city  of  perfect  privacy. 

“How  are  you,  Ruth?”  He  kissed  her  un¬ 
powdered  cheek. 

“How  do,  Dan?”  Andrew  gripped  his  hand  in 
careless  familiarity  and  enveloped  him  in  the  odor 
of  onions  that  came  unescapably  from  his  wide 
mouth  and  wet  flaring  nostrils. 

“Uncle  Dan!  Uncle  Dan!” 

He  patted  the  three  heads  that  bobbed  about  his 
legs. 

“Come  here,  children,”  said  Ruth.  “Uncle  won’t 
want  to  kiss  you  until  I  wipe  your  noses.” 

Daniel  shuddered  and  went  back  to  his  chair, 
passing  Andrew  who  stood,  hands  in  pockets,  with 
an  air  of  expansive  self-importance. 

“Hear  about  my  raise,  Dan?” 

“How  was  the  sermon,  Andy?”  asked  Mr.  Geer. 

“Oh,  he  gave  us  a  fine  talk  today,”  said  Andrew. 
“Lay  not  your  riches  where  thieves  can  get  at  them. 
He  said — ” 

“There,  Dan,  do  you  hear  that?”  called  Mr.  Geer. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  63 

“What  you  need  is  to  get  to  church  once  in  a  while 
and  hear  about  the  milk  of  human  kindness.” 

Daniel  bit  his  lip.  He  can’t  let  me  alone.  Jeal¬ 
ousy  eats  him  like  a  disease.  His  greed  backed  by 
the  New  Testament  and  the  Old.  He  turned  to  his 
sister.  “I  saw  a  girl  on  the  street  last  week  with 
eyes  like  yours.  It  reminded  me  of  the  days  when 
we  were  playmates.” 

Ruth  looked  pleased.  The  lines  in  her  face  relaxed 
as  she  smiled  across  the  heads  of  her  children.  “A 
long  time  ago,  Danny.  Everything’s  different  now. 
I’m  glad  you’re  getting  along  so  well  but  you  look 
tired.” 

“My  late  hours.  I  try  to  get  along  with  as  little 
sleep  as  possible.  Mornings  are  the  only  chance  I 
have  for  reading.  I  can’t  waste  them  in  sleep.” 

“You’ll  lose  your  health,”  she  said.  “Better  get 
more  sleep.” 

“Don’t  worry  about  Dan,  Ruthie,”  said  Andrew. 
“You  can  bet  your  last  dollar  that  he  gets  everything 
that’s  coming  to  him.” 

“Sleep’s  not  so  important,”  said  Daniel,  address¬ 
ing  Ruth.  “Napoleon  managed  with  four  hours. 
Edison,  too,  they  say.  And  Gibbon  tells  us  that 
Justinian  slept  only  one  hour.” 

Andrew  burst  into  a  derisive  shout.  “Is  that  so? 
You  must  think  you’re  like  them  fellows.” 

“I  wish  I  were.  I  admire  kudos,  don’t  you?” 
he  said.  Ignorant  lout.  That  will  give  him  pause. 
He  almost  bursts  through  his  skin  when  he  hears  a 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


64 

word  he  doesn't  understand.  Childish  of  me.  This 
house  takes  me  out  of  myself.  If  I  stay  another  five 
minutes  I’ll  be  in  a  brawl. 

“Now,  Dan,  don’t  begin  to  show  off,”  said  Ruth. 
“You’ll  only  make  Andy  mad.” 

“Sorry,  Ruth,”  said  Daniel.  “But  it’s  a  tempta¬ 
tion  sometimes  to  make  the  bourgeois  sit  up.” 

No  one  spoke.  Every  eye  fastened  on  Daniel’s 
pale  tight  face  with  an  expression  of  displeasure. 
He  arose  and  moved  toward  the  door.  Exit  Dan, 
the  fifth  son  of  Jacob  and  the  first  of  Bilhah.  They 
look  as  if  the  world  had  stopped  for  them — as  if 
the  diastole  which  goes  on  even  though  calamity 
stalks  and  reason  melts  away  had  ceased  at  an  in¬ 
comprehensible  word.  He  pulled  on  overcoat  and 
gloves  in  the  hall.  Silence  beyond  the  door.  An 
alvine  odor  hangs  in  the  air  of  this  place.  I’ll  be 
in  a  cleaner  atmosphere  when  I’m  back  with  the 
Perfumed  Garden  and  Von  Bayros.  I’ll  not  come 
here  again  in  a  hurry.  If  mother  wants  to  see  me 
she  can  meet  me  in  New  York. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway.  “Goodbye.  I’m  off.” 

His  mother  crossed  the  parlor.  She  pulled  down 
his  head.  “Don’t  forget  us,  Danny.  Come  soon 
again.  Your  pa — ” 

The  sneer  on  his  lips  faded  as  he  saw  her  tears. 
He  kissed  her  and  patted  her  hand.  “Goodbye, 
mother.”  She  looked  at  him  appealingly  but  he 
turned  away  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 


V 


Spreading  open  a  newspaper,  Daniel  nodded  at 
the  headwaiter.  “Hurry  my  luncheon  along,  John,” 
he  said.  “I  have  only  half  an  hour  today.” 

John  bowed,  suave,  servile,  bending  a  face  that 
was  flewed  like  a  bloodhound.  “By  the  way,  Mr. 
Geer,  a  lady  lunching  here  yesterday  asked  Henry 
what  time  you  generally  came  in.” 

“A  lady?”  Daniel  stared  at  the  important  shirt- 
front.  “What  lady?” 

“I  don’t  know.  She  isn’t  a  regular  customer,  I 
guess.” 

“Urn.”  Daniel  rattled  his  paper  and  John  moved 
away.  A  woman  inquiring  for  me.  It’s  fantastic. 
Women  don’t  ask  for  me  in  restaurants.  I’m  no 
Broadway  rounder  to  be  sought  out  at  mealtime. 
Probably  she  said  Mr.  Jeer  or  Leer  or  Beer  with 
money  to  spend  on  foot-loose  females. 

He  frowned  at  the  headlines.  Whew!  Badly 
beaten  on  that  Griggs  case.  I’ll  fire  the  reporter  who 
had  that  assignment.  Bad  as  young  Smoot  last 
week  writing  the  story  without  going  near  the  place. 
That’s  why  Trainer  wore  a  guilty  air.  Waiting  for 
the  thunderbolt.  He’ll  get  it,  too.  Bet  Miss  Curtis 
did  it.  He’s  always  protecting  her.  If  they  hadn’t 
65 


66 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


held  it  over  for  the  second  edition  we  could  have 
bluffed  it.  Here  are  John’s  sly  feet  again.  Con¬ 
versational  as  a  barber  today.  Pretend  not  to  see. 

“Mr.  Geer.” 

“Yep.”  Keep  on  reading.  That’s  the  thing. 
Conspiracy  from  here  to  Harlem  to  keep  me  from 
reading  today.  If  I  don’t  look  up  he’ll  soon  go. 
Discourages  them  to  talk  to  a  stone  face.  Psycho¬ 
logical  difficulty. 

“You  haven’t  ordered  yet,  sir.” 

“Oh.”  He  took  the  menu  and  ran  it  down. 
“Rare  roast  beef,  I  guess.  You  don’t  have  much 
of  a  variety  any  more.” 

“Got  something  pretty  good  today.  Spanish  dish. 
Rice,  peppers  and  eels.  Like  to  try  that?” 

“No.  Roast  beef — rare.”  He  put  up  his  paper 
and  shut  off  the  room.  Can’t  stand  scavenger  food. 
Always  think  of  the  idiot  sons  who  ate  the  eels  they 
found  in  their  father’s  corpse  when  he  was  brought 
home  drowned.  Cannibals,  once  removed.  Slimier 
than  snakes,  eels.  That  snake  I  killed  that  twisted 
around  my  wrist.  An  instinct  against  them.  Pro¬ 
bably  that’s  why  the  Romans  increased  a  criminal’s 
punishment  by  putting  snakes  in  the  sack  along  with 
the  monkey  and  dog.  How  they  must  have  writhed 
together  on  the  Tiber’s  bed,  biting  their  venomous 
protests  into  eyes  and  neck! 

“Good  morning,  Mr.  Geer.” 

He  looked  up  with  dazed  eyes  and  stumbled  to 
his  feet.  The  newspaper  fell  to  the  floor  and  he 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


6  7 


kicked  it  under  his  chair.  Amy  Fiske  smiled  at 
him,  standing  there  mysterious,  predatory,  fragrant. 
A  black  lace  veil  made  a  shadowed  retreat  for  her 
bright  hair  and  softened  the  secret  amusement  in  her 
eyes.  She  gave  a  black  glove  into  his  fingers.  He 
drew  out  a  chair. 

“Sit  down  and  tell  me  your  news.”  So  the 
panther  came  out  to  stalk  yesterday.  Wonder  how 
she  discovered  my  restaurant.  By  cunning  and 
craft,  chicanery  and  artful  dodging. 

Amy  settled  herself  with  little  sinuous  movements 
and  pulled  off  her  gloves.  Daniel  sat  down,  too, 
and  adjusted  his.  napkin  over  his  knees.  How 
awkwardly  I  received  her !  Blushing  like  a  sopho¬ 
more.  My  embarrassment  amuses  her.  Tables 
turned  against  me  today.  Fm  more  at  ease  in  my 
office.  Here  I  feel  encompassed.  I  must  establish 
myself  m  her  eyes.  Be  impersonal,  that’s  it.  Im¬ 
personal  and  high-handed. 

He  leaned  back,  unsmiling,  his  eyes  controlled. 
“I  couldn’t  get  away  from  the  office  yesterday  for 
luncheon.  Did  you  have  my  table?”  That  will 
confuse  her.  She  will  ask  me  how  I  knew  she  was 
here. 

Amy  rested  her  pointed  chin  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand.  Her  eyes  held  to  his  in  lenient  insolence. 
“No.  I  sat  over  there  by  the  window.” 

Daniel  moved  under  her  gaze.  Nothing  but  re¬ 
lentless  social  training  could  give  a  girl  that  poise. 
She  knows  I  know  about  her  hunting  expedition 


68 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


and  yet  she  doesn’t  even  trouble  to  explain.  I  like 
that.  Most  women  would  serve  up  an  alibi.  “Per¬ 
haps  if  you  haven’t  lunched  yet — ” 

“Thank  you.  That  would  be  very  nice.” 

He  gave  her  the  menu  and  watched  her,  still 
smiling  as  she  read  it.  I  hope  she’s  clever  at  in¬ 
terpretation.  If  so  she  will  guess  from  my  tone 
that  I  mean,  “Since  you  have  trapped  me,  Miss 
Fiske,  I  can  do  nothing  else  but  invite  you.”  Just 
as  well.  Now  she’ll  give  old  Rufus  a  good  account 
of  me.  I  wonder  why  she’s  smiling.  Does  she 
enjoy  my  discomfiture  or  does  she  want  me  to  note 
well  those  little  pointed  pearls  that  are  her  teeth? 
Ah,  Mona  Lisa,  swathed  in  seduction,  I  suspect 
you  of  every  wile  that  directs  the  activities  of 
woman.  Knowing  that  black  is  your  most  fitting 
setting  you  hope  to  dazzle  me  today  by  wrapping 
your  compact  roundnesses  in  its  penumbra.  You 
are  prepared  for  a  conflict  of  wills. 

“An  omelette  and  a  salad,  please,”  said  Amy. 
“I’ll  order  myself,  if  you  don’t  mind.  I  like  a 
special  dressing.” 

Daniel  beckoned  a  waiter  for  her  instructions  and 
watched  the  gestures  of  her  hands,  strong  yet  listless, 
threaded  with  blue  veins.  On  the  little  finger  of  her 
right  hand  was  a  scarab  of  greenish-blue  in  a  setting 
of  lotus  blossoms  carved  from  gold  more  red  than 
yellow.  Daniel  studied  it.  A  porcelain  symbol  of 
life  everlasting  made  under  Egyptian  skies  in  their 
bluest  days.  It  may  have  sustained  a  Pharaoh’s  sad 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


69 


speculations  on  his  soul.  I’d  like  to  ask  her  if  it’s 
genuine — not  that  illegitimacy  would  alter  its  beauty. 
Perhaps  the  pricelessness  of  age  is  a  false  value. 
At  any  rate  it  encourages  fraud,  theft,  waste  and 
romanticism.  So  does  love  for  that  matter.  How 
ironically  we  spend  gold  for  age  and  more  gold  for 
youth !  Our  acquisitive  sense  struggling  always 
against  our  weakness  for  the  indolent  lotus  until 
the  day  that  our  eyes  do  not  send  our  lifeless  brain 
the  message  that  the  sun  has  forgotten  to  rise.  Only 
in  death  do  we  possess  the  unpossessi'ble. 

Amy  dismissed  the  waiter  and  opened  her  velvet 
bag.  Holding  it  up  by  its  tassel  she  spilled  the 
contents  on  the  table — gold  cigarette  case,  lip-stick, 
scent  bottle,  powder-box — tumbling  and  rattling 
together. 

Daniel  looked  at  them,  his  eyes  amused  and  at¬ 
tracted.  The  secondary  sexual  characteristics  sup¬ 
plemented.  Lime  for  the  snare.  In  mother’s  time 
it  was  done  with  kidney-shaped  pads,  bodice  cups 
and  a  steel  girdle. 

“Remnants  of  past  days,”  said  Amy  with  a  lift 
of  her  shoulders.  “I  used  to  lose  everything.  I’m 
more  careful  now  that  there  can  be  no  replacements.” 
She  tapped  a  cigarette.  “I’ve  been  to  all  the  news¬ 
paper  offices  in  town  since  I  saw  you.  Yours  is  the 
most  attractive  by  far.  You  must  give  me  some¬ 
thing  to  do  there — good,  kind,  nice  Mr.  Geer.” 

Daniel  struck  a  match.  “I’m  sorry.  It’s  out  of 
the  question.”  Now  for  the  heavy  artillery.  She’s 


7o 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


getting  her  smile  into  action  behind  the  smoke 
screen.  This  amuses  me.  I  like  to  refuse  l}er. 
The  first  real  mondaine  I  ever  met.  Wish  Bob  would 
walk  in  now.  He’s  always  taken  the  attitude  that 
charming  women  were  out  of  my  reach. 

Amy  touched  her  cigarette  to  the  flame.  By  the 
flare  he  observed  the  smoothness  of  the  skin  about 
her  eyes  and  the  delicate  blue  shadows  that  rested 
almost  imperceptibly  beneath  them.  “ Don’t  be  so 
hard  on  a  beginner,”  she  said.  “Please  make  a  place 
for  me  in  a  corner.  Surely  someone  helped  you 
when  you  began.” 

“Don’t  you  believe  it,”  he  said.  I’d  like  to  tell 
her  of  those  years.  The  cold  of  my  winters,  my 
sweating  summers.  And  she  in  her  boudoir  by  the 
ice-cream  button. 

“I  want  to  be  like  you.  How  shall  I  begin?”  she 
asked. 

Daniel  looked  at  her  long  white  hands.  “You  can’t. 
It’s  too  late.  One  has  to  get  out  early  and  fight.” 

She  lifted  her  cigarette,  eyes  on  his.  “But  I 
didn’t” 

“Then  you’re  up  against  it.  Experience  is  what 
counts.  You  won’t  get  far  with  sex  appeal  these 
days.” 

Amy  began  to  laugh.  Her  voice,  metallic  in  speech, 
came  softly  from  her  throat.  “Mr.  Geer!  It’s  still 
the  best  weapon  against  muscle.” 

He  watched  the  shadows  in  her  face,  altering, 
mpving,  as  the  contours  changed  with  her  laughter. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


7 1 


She  looks  very  young  when  she  smiles.  About 
twenty-three,  I  should  judge.  Wonder  where’s  she 
been  hearing  those  speeches  about  the  battle  of  the 
sexes.  Probably  belongs  to  some  equal  rights  sorosis 
that  cries  out  against  the  tyrant  man  at  monthly1 
meetings. 

“I’m  no  super-woman,”  she  went  on,  “I’m  terri¬ 
fied  when  I  meet  one.  I  must  begin  by  favor.  Many 
men  begin  that  way,  too,  you  know.  They’re  not  all 
born  as  clever  as  you.”  She  stopped  to  draw  breath, 
holding  it  before  letting  it  out  in  a  long  sigh.  Then 
she  held  out  her  hands,  palms  up,  toward  Daniel 
and  lifted  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes,  earnestly  open, 
began  to  close.  The  lids  crept  down,  covering  the 
lights  and  leaving  sphinx-like  slits. 

He  gazed  at  her.  She  'battles  with  the  unlethal 
weapons  of  soft  sighs  and  drooping  eyelids.  I 
admire  more  the  spears  and  shields  of  the  Amazons, 
immortalized  in  their  rebellion  on  brave  Greek 
friezes.  I  wonder  if  only  the  ugly  ones  joined  that 
strange  army.  A  beautiful  face  seems  to  sap  a 
woman’s  courage  and  condemns  her  to  the  path  of  a 
satellite  where  she  shines  so  brightly  that  she 
deceives  the  unobserving. 

The  waiter  brought  a  tray.  Daniel  helped  Amy 
collect  the  glittering  litter  on  the  table.  The  top 
of  her  scent  bottle  was  loose  and  he  found  his  fingers 
wet  and  pungent.  He  dried  them  on  his  handker¬ 
chief.  She  bent  toward  him.  The  smoke  from  her 
cigarette  rose  between  their  faces. 


72 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


"Well,  Mr.  Geer?” 

"I  wish  I  could  do  as  you  ask,”  he  said.  “But 
it’s  impossible.  If  you  had  had  the  training  and 
there  were  a  vacancy — ” 

“Can’t  you  arrange  that?”  She  smiled  again  and 
her  eyes,  promising  and  denying,  searched  in  his. 
He  shivered.  Something  about  this  girl  pierces  and 
haunts.  I  won’t  see  her  again.  She  blows  away 
my  refusals  like  feathers.  What  helpless  hands, 
provocatively  poised!  I  could  crush  them  out  of 
shape.  And  get  well  scratched  afterward  with  those 
pointed  pink  nails.  Would  she  scratch?  I  wonder. 

He  bent  forward  as  if  asking  the  question  aloud. 
Her  eyes  are  steady.  Good.  She  doesn’t  retreat. 
No  pretences.  The  other  day  her  eyes  were  gray. 
Now  they’re  as  green  as  a  chrysoprase  is  green  and 
as  cold  as  the  waters  of  Cydnus.  Cold,  yet  burning. 
She’s  extraordinary.  Perhaps  I  think  so  only  be¬ 
cause  I,  the  male,  feel  the  female  signalling.  A 
pity  that  knowing  what  is  true  doesn’t  control  the 
instincts.  Intelligence  has  no  value  when  lovely 
woman  is  busy  at  her  conquests.  She’s  as  beautiful 
as  the  moon.  Ah,  a  good  collation,  Amy  and  the 
moon,  in  their  deception.  Instead  of  being  a  shining 
shield,  a  pale  princess,  a  silver  sickle  in  the  sky,  a 
golden  bowl,  a  slender  crescent,  the  moon  is  in  reality 
a  black  ball  of  unlovely  dirt,  hanging  dead  and 
unburied  to  remind  us  of  a  similar  end.  And  Amy. 
What  is  she  under  that  warm  and  tender  flesh,  tinted 
and  adorned  with  two  superb  green  jewels?  A 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


73 


skeleton  of  dry  horror — a  grinning  skull.  Knowing 
that,  she  moves  me.  I  don’t  bring  to  this  beef  the 
appetite  that  its  excellence  deserves.  She’s  smiling 
again.  A  danger  signal  is  flashing  its  message. 
Back  to  the  office  before  I  promise  she  may  come  to 
work  in  the  morning  for  an  inordinate  salary. 

He  spoke  with  hesitation,  eyes  turned  on  his  plate. 
“I’m  afraid  I  must  go  now.  I  have  a  conference  at 
two  o’clock.” 

“Another  conference?  Oh,  dear!”  Her  reproach 
was  flattery,  delicately  honied.  He  looked  up  with  a 
smile.  “How  changed  you  are  when  you  smile!” 
she  said.  “You’re  another  person,  lighted  up  as 
if  one  passed  a  candle  inside  a  shell.”  She  trailed 
her  hand  in  the  air  between  them. 

Daniel’s  smile  flickered  and  went  out.  He  blushed. 
My  first  pretty  compliment  and  I  don’t  know  how 
to  answer  her.  I’m  not  used  to  people  talking  like 
that.  Now  she’s  thinking  how  to  persuade  me. 
But  it’s  no  use.  I’m  made  of  concrete.  Plot  and 
scheme  all  you  like,  Amy  Fiske.  Quicken  the  beat¬ 
ing  of  my  heart.  But  no  is  the  answer.  My  pulses 
do  not  guide  my  head.  And  for  that  I’m  a  man  in 
a  million. 

“I’m  afraid  I’ve  bored  you  and  spoiled  your 
luncheon,”  said  Amy.  “I’ve  talked  of  things  that 
interest  you  very  little.  Women,  I  mean,  and  their 
difficulties.” 

“Occasionally  I  have  been  interested  in  women  but 
not  in  their  difficulties,”  he  said.  “I’ve  found  that 


74 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


to  be  interested  in  a  woman’s  difficulties  means  being 
put  in  charge  of  them.”  Now  Fve  made  her  angry. 
She’s  gathering  gloves  and  purse.  That  was  rude, 
I  suppose.  Truth  always  sounds  rude.  I!d  better 
say  something  pleasant.  “Black  is  very  becoming  to 
you.  I  like  it  better  than  the  brown  you  wore  the 
other  day.  It — er — sets  off  your  skin  and  hair.” 
Damn!  I  can’t  make  a  compliment  without  stam¬ 
mering.  I’d  do  better  to  write  it  down  and  pass  the 
paper  across  the  table. 

“Thank  you,”  said  Amy.  She  clipped  her  words 
closely.  A  flush  appeared  on  her  cheeks  and  she 
pulled  down  her  veil.  Her  eyes  'behind  it  were 
contracted,  grudging.  She  slipped  a  hand  into  a 
glove  and  pulled  at  it. 

“I’ve  been  admiring  your  scarab,”  said  Daniel. 
“Do  you  believe  in  its  promise?” 

“No.  It’s  for  ornament,  not  optimism,”  she 
answered.  Without  preliminaries  she  slipped  into 
her  fur  coat  before  Daniel  could  reach  her.  “Good¬ 
bye.  I  shan’t  see  you  again.” 

Daniel  stood  by  her  side.  He  -bowed  and  looked 
at  her  with  blank  eyes.  “Not — not  see  me  again?” 

“No.  Thank  you  for  my  omelette.”  Without 
offering  her  hand  to  him  she  turned  and  walked 
out  of  the  dining  room. 

He  was  still  standing  there  when  the  waiter 
brought  the  bill.  He  paid  and  left  the  restaurant, 
turning  into  lower  Broadway.  He  walked  toward 
his  office,  his  overcoat  blown  back  on  his  shoulders 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


75 


by  the  wind.  Pausing  at  a  crossing  for  the  traffic 
to  pass,  he  began  to  shiver.  He  buttoned  his  coat, 
put  on  his  gloves  and  pulled  out  his  handkerchief. 
That  damned  perfume  all  over  me.  Serves  me  right 
for  having  touched  her  gew-gaws.  It  takes  more 
than  a  few  gold  toys  and  a  lace  veil  to  seduce  me, 
she  knows  by  now.  She’s  wasted  two  days  and 
received  only  an  omelette  for  her  pains.  She  needn’t 
think  I  minded  her  walking  off  like  that.  A  punish¬ 
ment  for  my  obstinacy,  she  intended  it.  But  I’m 
not  made  up  of  such  weak  stuff  as  she  thinks.  She 
can  go  her  way  and  I’ll  go  mine.  Because  she 
couldn’t  get  what  she  wanted  she  decided  not  to 
see  me  again.  Fm  not  worth  her  time  unless  there’s 
something  to  'be  gained.  Well,  let  her  stay  with 
her  friends  of  the  upper  crust.  They  know  how 
to  pay  compliments  and  bow  and  scrape  like  dancing 
teachers.  They  could  give  an  answer  to  the  candle- 
inside-the-shell  compliment.  All  right,  Miss  Amy 
Fiske  from  Boston.  I’m  through.  Go  hang  yourself 
on  your  family  tree  for  all  I  care.  But  I  should 
think  she  would  blush  to  remember  she  called  me 
rude.  John  saw  her  walk  out  but  pretended  to  be 
talking  to  someone.  He’ll  pass  the  word  around 
and  all  the  waiters  will  have  a  good  laugh.  I’ll  go 
somewhere  else  tonight.  Damn  women  anyway.  Or 
rather  damn  me  that  I  have  to  think  of  them.  Sex 
sex,  sex.  It  poisons  life.  Push  it  away,  forget  it 
for  a  time,  then  back  it  comes.  The  cycle  whirls 
again  and  you  drop  everything,  scepter  or  pickaxe, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


76 

and  go  hunting.  Stronger  than  death.  Cheap 
phrase,  but  true.  Take  war.  The  night  Tom  and 
I  got  leave  before  the  attack.  Extermination  prob¬ 
able.  Did  we  read  a  great  book  for  the  last  time? 
Or  contemplate  aesthetic  beauty  in  the  Louvre? 
Like  hell.  Our  choice  was  sex.  Live  by  it,  die  by 
it.  We  packed  a  taxi  with  girls.  Off  to  the  cafes. 
That’s  how  we  got  ready  to  die.  Funny  how 
Tom’s  girl  knew  it  was  the  last  for  him.  “Alors, 
a  la  prochaine.”  But  she  shook  her  head.  Good 
thing  he  didn’t  notice.  So  sick  that  he  wanted  only 
the  seclusion  of  one  of  those  dirty  tin  spheres.  Next 
day  he  lost  his  face.  Brains  lying  about  like  grey 
gruel. 

Miss  Elliot  was  waiting  in  Daniel’s  office. 
“They’ve  gone  into  the  conference,  Mr.  Geer.” 

He  took  off  his  coat  without  replying. 

She  came  to  his  side.  “This  was  in  those  papers 
you  gave  me  this  morning.  I  thought  you  might 
want  it.” 

He  looked  down  at  the  card  in  her  hand.  Miss 
Amy  Fiske  and  her  address.  “No.  Throw  it  in 
the  basket.”  He  picked  up  a  memorandum  pad 
from  his  desk  and  stood  there  till  she  left  the  room. 
That  girl’s  getting  too  officious.  Doesn’t  she  think 
I  know  I’m  late?  And  if  that  card  had  been  some¬ 
thing  I  wanted  she  would  have  tossed  it  out  of  the 
window. 

He  went  half  way  to  the  door,  stopped  and 
turned  back  to  his  desk.  He  stood  there,  frowning 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


77 


and  blinking,  then  bent  quickly  over  the  basket.  The 
card  was  lying  face  down  on  the  voided  mail  of 
the  morning.  He  caught  it  up  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  Facing  the  door  in  an  abrupt  turn,  he  saw 
Miss  Elliot  standing  there.  She  hesitated,  then 
came  forward,  eyes  on  the  floor,  a  gloating  smile 
curling  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  In  her  hands 
were  the  letters  he  had  dictated  at  noon,  now  typed 
and  ready  for  his  signature. 

Daniel’s  face  grew  tight  and  red.  He  brushed 
past  her  and  hurried  from  the  room. 


VI 


Daniel  turned  on  the  bathtub  tap  and  a  jet  of 
water  splashed  and  pushed  the  barricade  of  his  hand. 
As  usual  no  hot  water.  And  tomorrow  morning  I’ll 
be  lucky  if  there’s  enough  to  cover  my  shins  unless 
I  get  up  at  seven.  Pyjamas  disappeared.  Mrs. 
Lewis  has  been  here.  Get  clean  ones.  He  went 
whistling  into  the  bedroom,  looked  on  and  under  the 
bed  and  opened  the  dresser  drawers.  That  woman 
forgets  my  laundry  for  three  weeks,  then  hides  it. 
If  those  buttons  are  still  off  I’ll  fire  her  no  matter 
what  she  says  about  her  Bill’s  rheumatic  pains  from 
the  docks.  I’d  better  take  some  aspirin.  Headache 
since  luncheon  with  Miss  Amy  Fiske.  Mr.  Wood 
said  I  looked  pale.  No  wonder.  Humiliating  for  a 
woman  to  walk  off  like  that.  Mr.  Wood  guessed 
something  was  wrong.  Kept  looking  over  and  once 
answered  for  me.  Hope  the  others  didn’t  notice  I 
hadn’t  been  listening.  In  another  ten  minutes  I 
would  have  lost  my  temper.  Not  easy  to  say  nothing 
but,  “Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Bird.”  “Quite  right,  sir.”  “Oh, 
abso-/wte-ly.”  Pack  of  flatulent  inefficients.  Lucky 
for  Horace  Bird  his  father  left  a  ready-made  news¬ 
paper  that  he  can’t  put  on  the  rocks  in  a  hurry. 
“Now,  gentlemen,  the  point  before  us  is  this.  Are 
78 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


79 


we  willing  to  accept  that  new  price  for  paper?” 
What  if  they  weren’t,  I’d  like  to  know?  I  suppose 
he’d  buy  a  few  thousand  yards  of  cheesecloth  and 
print  on  that  till  some  paper  company  felt  sorry  for 
him.  Wonder  if  a  cold  shower  would  do  my  head 
good. 

Shuffling  in  torn  slippers,  he  went  into  the  living 
room  and  stood  frowning  at  the  bookcase.  A  parcel 
lay  along  the  top.  He  carried  it  to  the  table  and 
opened  it  by  the  reading  lamp.  The  laundry.  My 
God,  why  did  she  put  it  there  ?  Might  not  have  seen 
it  for  a  week.  Print  another  sign  for  her.  PUT 
LAUNDRY  ON  BED.  She’d  never  notice  a  new 
one.  Hasn’t  learned  the  old  ones  yet.  Glad  I 
bought  that  rug.  Ancient  Aztec  flavor  about  the 
pattern.  Are  angles  older  than  curves  in  art?  No. 
Someone  said  the  river  Meander  was  the  first 
design. 

He  kicked  off  his  slippers,  rubbed  his  soles  on 
a  red  square  of  the  pattern  and  began  to  slide  about 
the  crooked  black  'border.  Softly  rough  to  bare  feet. 
Very  pleasant.  Used  to  like  grass  when  we  lived 
near  Newark.  Stepped  on  a  bottle  once.  Scar  still 
there  perhaps.  Yes,  here — like  a  crescent.  Once 
more  around  Mexico  before  bed.  Like  hammered 
sheep’s  wool.  Wonder  if  the  barefoot  races  have 
lost  sensation  in  the  soles.  Perhaps  the  callouses  are 
ticklish.  Twelve  o’clock.  That’s  what  it  was  when 
I  came  in.  Must  have  stopped.  Stopped  short 
never  to  go  again  when  the  old  man  died.  Grand- 


8o 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


father's  clock.  Mother  sang  that  over  her  sewing. 
That  and  Oh,  Emma,  something  dilemma.  And  I 
danced  with  a  girl  with  a  hole  in  her  stocking. 
Set  clock  by  watch.  Twelve-fifteen.  Never  exactly 
alike,  says  Einstein.  Position  alters  accuracy. 
Sunday  supplement  method  of  illustrating  Einstein. 
Start  away  from  a  clock  at  the  speed  of  light  and 
although  the  clock  runs  on  you  see  the  hands  always 
pointing  to  twelve-fifteen.  After  fifty  years  of  this 
intensive  travelling,  still  twelve-fifteen.  Catchpenny 
educational  propaganda  for  the  masses  which  leaves 
them  cold  and  more  befogged  than  ever.  The  de¬ 
lusion  of  the  proletariat's  needs.  Millions  that  should 
maintain  science  and  art  spent  on  educating  sub¬ 
normals — or  even  normals.  Those  plumbers  and 
painters  who  used  Old  Rufus's  first  editions  to  rest 
their  pots  and  tools  on.  His  original  Beardsley  two 
hundred  pounds  he  paid  in  London  was  soaked  with 
paste  at  a  ladder’s  top.  A  few  thousand  dollars  more 
spent  on  their  education  by  the  city  taxpayers  and 
they  would  have  cut  up  his  Watteau  to  light  their 
pipes.  The  fallacy  of  trusting  the  masses  never 
seems  to  die  out.  Wilde  in  a  music  hall  told  chance 
young  men  about  Greece.  Cockneys  from  the  gal¬ 
lery  who  did  not  reconstruct  the  temples  of  Athena 
and  Diana  with  calm  white  columns  but  saw  only 
Socrates’  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Alcibiades  and  the 
seminal  activities  of  the  great  weak  of  the  Golden 
Age. 

He  left  the  rug  and  went  to  the  long  bookcase. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


81 


Outline  of  History?  No.  Gods  in  Exile?  No. 
La  Folie  de  Jesus f  No.  Cause  of  an  Ice  Age? 
No.  Suetonius?  No.  Pater’s  Renaissance?  No. 
But  yes.  Mona  Lisa  in  chapter  on  da  Vinci. 
Picture  I  bought  that  day  at  the  Louvre  pasted  in 
the  back.  Here  it  is.  A  twin  for  Amy. 

He  switched  off  the  lights,  went  into  the  bedroom 
and  pushed  up  the  window.  Leaning  out  over  the 
night  street  he  breathed  deeply  ten  times  and  turned, 
shivering,  to  his  bed.  Too  cold  for  the  other  ten. 
Come  along,  Lisa.  Between  the  sheets  with  you. 
Pardon  the  open  window,  my  love.  Your  fifteenth 
century  ceilings  held  more  cubic  inches  of  air  than 
those  of  a  modem  flat  on  the  Harlem  border.  Here 
we  supplement  from  the  street.  Fresh  germs  every 
hour.  Now  listen  to  the  judgment  of  posterity  on 
your  portrait.  “We  all  know  the  face  and  hands  of 
the  figure,  set  in  its  marble  chair,  in  that  circle  of 
fantastic  rocks,  as  in  some  faint  light  under  the 
sea.”  Wonder  how  he  arranged  his  light  effects? 
The  household  of  II  Giocondo  must  have  been  over¬ 
turned — that  husband  of  yours,  Lisa,  whom  I  dare¬ 
say  you  tormented  until  he  sent  for  Lionardo.  “The 
presence  that  rose  so  strangely  beside  the  waters  is 
expressive  of  what  in  the  ways  of  a  thousand  years 
men  had  come  to  desire.  Here  is  the  head  upon 
which  all  ‘the  ends  of  the  world  are  come,’  and  the 
eyelids  are  a  little  weary.  It  is  a  beauty  wrought  out 
from  within  the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little  cell  by  cell,  of 
strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and  exquisite 


82 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


passions.”  I  wonder  why  she  smiled.  Perhaps  at 
the  memory  of  horns  on  her  husband’s  distraught 
head?  Even  dead  women  will  smile  for  that.  “She 
is  older  than  the  rocks  among  which  she  sits;  like 
the  vampire,  she  has  been  dead  many  times,  and 
learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave;  and  trafficked  for 
strange  webs  with  Eastern  merchants.” 

He  turned  again  to  the  pasted  picture.  Lisa’s 
magnificent  Medici  died  the  year  Columbus  found 
Amy’s  birth  land,  a  gray  forbidding  soil.  The 
Florence  of  Lorenzo  and  the  Boston  of  the  Cabots. 
Brunelleschi’s  Duomo  and  Faneuil  Hall.  II  Cor  so 
and  Commonwealth  Avenue.  And  now,  Lisa,  I’m 
going  to  throw  you  out  of  bed  to  pass  the  night 
on  that  chair.  Missed!  I  apologize.  Make  the 
best  of  the  floor,  then.  Now  to  sleep.  That  damned 
light  on  the  corner  comes  straight  to  my  eyelids. 
Move  the  pillow.  Better.  Sleep.  Sheep.  Count 
one  hundred.  I  daresay  she’s  in  bed,  too.  Or  read¬ 
ing.  Not  far  from  here.  A  Riverside  Drive 
apartment  house.  Alone  ?  Perhaps  an  aunt  or 
cousin  keeps  an  eye  on  her.  Mother  and  school, 
college  and  when  father  died.  Sounds  innocent 
enough.  But  those  cinquecento  eyes  make  me 
wonder.  A  predisposition  to  follies  and  calamities, 
plottings  in  corners,  muscles  tightening  for  the 
spring,  hissings  among  serpents.  That  stone  near 
the  slave  market  in  Constantinople.  It  moved  or 
fell  down  or  cried  out  when  a  woman  went  by  who 
had  lied.  Some  emperor’s  sister  always  made  a 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


83 


detour  to  avoid  the  Virgin's  Stone.  But  maid  or 
otherwise,  Miss  Amy  Fiske  has  a  gentle  effluvium, 
deadly  as  X-rays  and  as  inevitable — an  emanation 
that  no  process  but  age  can  check.  From  where  she 
sits  reading  it  trembles  through  the  air  and  touches 
me  on  all  my  surfaces.  The  curious  timbre  of  her 
voice  sounds  in  my  ears.  Daniel,  she  would  say.  Not 
Dan-yul.  Daniel.  I  refused  her  telephone  number 
so  even  an  invitation  to  dinner  must  be  written  and 
the  answer  waited  for.  Information.  Operator 
could  get  number.  Five  minutes.  No,  too  late. 
Still  she  knows  I’m  up  half  the  night  and  I  daresay 
she  often  dances  until  dawn. 

He  bounded  out  of  bed  and  walked  cloth-shod 
into  the  living  room,  there  to  stand  before  the 
telephone  in  indecision,  shaking  his  head,  wrinkling 
his  high  forehead  and  whistling  between  his  teeth. 
Then  he  lifted  the  receiver. 

“I  want  you  to  get  a  number  from  information, 
Sam.  The  apartment  house  at  200  Riverside  Drive. 
Call  me  when  they  answer." 

The  receiver  replaced,  he  began  to  walk  up  and 
down,  his  pale  blue  eyes  wandering  over  the  walls. 
What  shall  I  say?  Good  evening,  Miss  Fiske.  I 
want  to  apologize  for  anything  I  may  have  said  at 
luncheon  that  annoyed  you.  No.  Awkward  sen¬ 
tence.  What’s  the  matter  with  me?  I  needn’t  go 
into  a  panic  because  I’m  going  to  talk  to  a  girl  who 
insulted  me.  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Fiske?  I 
thought  you  might  find  a  free  evening  soon  to  dine 


84 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


with  me.  No,  that’s  taking  things  too  much  for 
granted,  I  must  apologize  first,  I  suppose.  Women 
are  like  that.  They  offend  and  you  apologize.  How 
will  she  take  the  announcement  that  I  am  I,  speaking 
out  of  later  than  midnight?  Better  not  walk  too 
far  away  from  the  telephone.  Sam  might  think 
I  wasn’t  going  to  answer.  Slipper  off.  Never  mind. 

The  telephone  gave  out  three  sharp  rings  and 
Daniel  jumped  forward. 

“Is  this  200  Riverside  Drive?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does  Miss  Amy  Fiske  live  there?” 

“Who?  What’s  the  name?” 

“Amy  Fiske.” 

“Jghnmnt  ndlcfshen.” 

“What’s  that?  Just  a  minute,  don’t  ring  off! 
Hello !” 

“I’m  connecting  you,  sir.” 

“Oh.  Thank  you.”  Now  he’s  ringing. 

“Yes  ?”  Not  hers.  Yet  wire  changes  sound. 

“Is  this  Miss  Fiske?” 

“No.  Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  her?” 

“If  you  please.” 

“Just  a  moment.  Amy!  Someone  for  you. 

. No,  not  your  mother.  It  isn’t 

long  distance.  It’s  a  man.” 

Daniel’s  hand  was  shaking.  Why  did  she  say 
that?  Perhaps  she  will  guess  who  and  won’t  come. 
Old  meddler  maiden  aunt.  Not  long  distance  but 
a  man.  Same  tone  she’d  use  to  say  ogre. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


85 


“Hello.” 

“Hell-ump.”  Throat  closed.  Can’t  talk.  Can’t 
answer  coo. 

“I  don’t  hear  you.  It’s  Sydney,  isn’t  it?  I 
thought  you  would  be  coming  in  tonight,  my  dear. 
What  have  you — ” 

He  pulled  the  receiver  from  his  ear  and  hung  it 
on  the  hook.  There.  That’s  done  with.  Mys- 
terious  midnight  telephone  caller  hangs  up  after 
throat  closes.  Why  didn’t  I  go  on?  I  don’t  know. 
Sydney,  my  dear.  That’s  the  reason  she  came  to 
speak.  For  him.  Evidently  no  secret  from  the 
aunt.  Some  Fifth  Avenue  scion  probably  who 
telephones  at  any  hour.  What  if  the  connection 
isn’t  broken  and  she  inquires  of  Sam?  He’ll  tell 
her  who.  If  bell  rings,  don’t  answer.  Sweating  all 
over.  Can’t  get  into  bed  like  this.  Shower.  Run 
under  and  out. 

Stripping  off  his  pyjamas,  he  strode  into  the 
bathroom.  Forgot  slipper.  Get  after.  Sydney,  my 
dear.  Coo  coo  goo.  And  to  me,  I  shan’t  see  you 
again.  Thank  you  for  my  omelette.  I’d  better  look 
at  this  thing  squarely.  I’ve  become  enfevered,  it 
seems,  of  a  woman  who  wants  nothing  from  me 
except  my  wrist  to  step  on  while  she  climbs  to 
economic  independence.  Knowing  this,  why  do  I  go 
on?  That  damned  sex  thing  again,  acting  through 
new  media.  That’s  it.  Somatic  need  of  woman, 
subtle,  poisonous,  libidinous,  mind-eating,  energy- 
destroying,  in-at-the-death  woman.  Tomorrow  take 


86 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


out  that  little  cashier  and  kiss  her  to  rid  myself  of 
Amy  Fiske.  One  the  same  as  another.  Except 
Elliot.  Transfer  her  to  another  department  till 
she  learns  manners.  Probably  she’s  told  every  man 
in  the  city  room  about  that  card.  Oof !  Water  takes 
breath.  Ice.  Finnish  system  better.  Graduating 
degrees  each  bucket-full.  Wish  Amy  Fiske  were  in 
Finland.  Old  Rufus  did  me  no  favor  when  he 
sent — 

He  stepped  from  the  tub  and  reached  for  a  bath- 
towel.  With  long  stropping  strokes  he  rubbed  his 
body.  Sydney,  my  dear.  He’s  welcome  to  that 
name.  Probably  writes  vers  libre  and  thinks  hers 
are  good.  Says  he  thinks  so  anyhow.  Syd-neeee. 
One  of  those  half-males  always  hanging  about  wo¬ 
men.  Kissing  their  hands,  sitting  on  a  cushion 
at  their  feet  and  handing  them  their  tea.  Any  pup 
who  can  manage  his  feet  has  privileges.  That’s 
the  way  those  women  choose  their  friends.  How¬ 
ever,  the  most  discerning  of  us  aren’t  much  better 
off.  Pick  our  friends  from  necessity  from  among 
those  who  happen  to  be  living  in  the  world  at  the 
same  time.  I  should  like  to  have  known  Hisop. 
Lady  Mary  Montague,  George  Sand,  Voltaire, 
Aspasia,  for  instance,  chattering  over  tea.  Or  to 
have  met  between  acts  at  the  opera  Hadrian,  Pepys, 
the  Queen  of  Sheba,  Ninon  de  l’Enclos,  Croesus, 
Aristophanes,  Beau  Brummel  and  the  Medici  family. 
Napoleon?  No.  Not  up  to  much  as  a  social  asset. 
Always  asking  the  women  guests  why  they  weren’t 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


87 


pregnant  for  France.  Faustine,  too.  A  bit  de- 
clasee,  perhaps,  but  all  right  for  a  supper  party  after 
the  Follies.  Her  guests — let’s  see.  Lucullus  to 
shake  bootleg  cocktails.  How  about  the  Marquis  de 
Sade?  That  is,  if  his  prison  engagements  didn’t 
interfere.  Flis  partner,  Messalina.  And  Henry 
the  Eighth  with  Diane  of  Poitiers,  Casanova  for 
Catherine  of  Russia,  Nero  for  Lucrezia  Borgia, 
Alexander  for  Sappho,  having  tastes  in  common. 
Then  Cellini  for  the  female  Pope,  Joan — Giovanni 
ventidue.  Aubrey  Beardsley  for  Salome.  Louis 
Fourteenth  for  Semiramis.  Rabelais  and  Agrippina. 
Heliogabalus  and  Oscar.  Mona  Lisa  and  Daniel 
Geer. 

The  telephone  rang,  two  sustained  rings  and  a 
short  one  that  followed  like  a  hiccough.  Daniel, 
buttoning  the  collar  of  his  pyjama  coat,  stiffened 
against  the  washbowl.  She’s  found  out.  Ringing 
me  back.  Should  have  warned  Sam.  Her  de¬ 
tective  instinct  roused — like  finding  my  restaurant. 
Won’t  answer.  That’s  best.  Keep  out  of  trouble. 
Never  could  explain. 

He  went  into  the  living  room  and  walked  about 
the  telephone,  looking  at  it  with  anxious  eyes.  It 
rang  again,  a  long  exasperated  summons.  He 
walked  away  and  sat  down  in  the  padded  chair  by 
the  reading  lamp.  Persistent  red-head,  persistent 
black-face,  combine  your  colors  ad  lib.  A  man’s 
house  is  his  castle.  Curious  sensation,  being  trap¬ 
ped.  Used  to  have  it  in  class  when  I  thought  my 


88 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


turn  was  coming.  And  that  day  in  the  chess 
tournament  when  Dobbey  advanced  the  queen’s 
knight’s  pawn. 

The  elevator  door  clanged  in  the  hallway  outside. 
Light  steps  advanced  and  halted.  Daniel’s  doorbell 
rang.  Sam.  Come  for  an  explanation.  I’ll 
give  him  a  drink  and  fifty  cents  to  shoot  at  craps. 

Toes  clinging  to  loose  slippers,  he  went  to  the 
door  and  pulled  it  open.  A  girl  stood  outside  who 
stared  up  at  him  from  beneath  a  flopping  hat-brim. 
He  stepped  back,  leaving  a  slipper  that  lay  like  a 
barbican  for  him  between  invader  and  refuge. 
“Pardon,”  he  said,  “I  thought  it  was — ” 

“Hello,”  said  the  girl.  “Your  coon  didn’t  want 
to  let  me  up  when  you  didn’t  answer  your  ’phone. 
But  I  showed  him  this  and  told  him  I  had  a  date 
with  you.”  She  held  out  a  card  engraved  Daniel 
Boone  Geer  and  he  saw  his  address  written  there  in 
his  own  handwriting. 

“Where  did  you  get  that?”  He  tried  to  take  it 
from  her  hand  but  she  stepped  over  his  slipper  and 
walked  past  him  to  look  about  the  room  with  eager 
curiosity. 

Leaving  the  door  open,  he  hurried  after  her  in 
protest.  “Please  I’m  not  dressed — ” 

She  turned  and  gave  him  a  long  scrutiny  that 
began  with  his  light  disordered  hair,  wandered  down 
his  striped  pyjamas  and  ended  at  a  rather  large  bare 
foot  that  rested  on  the  rug.  “Oh,  don’t  mind  a 
little  thing  like  that,”  she  said.  “Say,  you  left 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


89 


your  shoe  over  there.”  Now  her  face  was  toward 
the  light  and  she  was  smiling  with  fixed  dark  eyes 
and  full-blown  painted  lips. 

He  stared.  The  little  swindler  of  the  restaurant! 
He  frowned  his  recognition  at  her.  She’s  a  week 
late.  What  does  she  want  ?  She  didn’t  come  to  give 
me  back  my  five  dollars,  that’s  certain. 

Her  smile  began  to  fade  from  its  security  and  she 
moved  forward  uneasily.  “Don’t  you  remember 
me?  The  other  night — I  said  I’d  come  here  after 
but  I  couldn’t  get  out.  My  mother  was  sick.  She’s 
sick  yet.  And  me —  I  lost  my  job.” 

He  nodded.  So  that’s  it.  Wants  money  for 
mother.  Or  more  likely  for  some  lover  waiting 
around  the  corner  for  the  fleecing.  “Yes,  I  re¬ 
member  you.  You  took  five  dollars  from  me,”  he 
said. 

The  girl  laughed,  more  as  at  a  joke  they  both 
shared  than  for  embarrassment.  “That’s  right.  Say, 
have  you  got  anything  to  eat?  I’m  hungry.”  She 
pulled  off  her  hat  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  The 
clipped  points  of  black  hair  fell  about  her  forehead 
and  ears.  She  smoothed  them  and  began  to  hum, 
smiling  and  expectant. 

Daniel  regarded  her  with  cold  unmoving  eyes. 
Vulgar  little  gutter-rat.  I  must  have  been  beside 
myself  the  other  night,  waiting  for  her  in  the  wind. 
He  folded  his  arms.  Now  get  her  out  without 
making  a  scene  that  will  float  down  the  stairs  to 
Sam’s  ears. 


90 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


She  was  beginning  to  look  at  him  with  suspicion 
while  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She  thrust  out  her 
chin.  “Say,  what’s  the  matter  with  you?”  she  said 
in  a  rough  strumming  voice.  “Why  do  you  act 
so  funny?  You  ain’t  sick,  are  you?” 

Wincing,  he  spoke  in  his  severe  office  manner. 
“I  am  not  dressed  to  receive  visitors  and  I  did  not 
ask  you  to  come  in.”  If  that  isn’t  enough,  I’ll  push 
her  out  of  here  by  force.  In  her  environment  she’s 
used  to  vehement  invitations  to  come  in  or  get  out. 

Hands  on  hips,  she  gave  a  strident  laugh.  “You 
wasn’t  so  particular  the  other  night  when  you  was 
after  me  to  come  here.”  She  crossed  the  rug  and 
came  to  his  side.  “Come  out  of  it,”  she  said  in  a 
coaxing  tone.  “Don’t  ;be  mad  at  me.  I  couldn’t 
help  it  if  my  mother  was  sick,  could  I?”  She  laid 
stubby  fingers,  ungloved  and  red  from  the  cold,  on 
his  arm  and  stroked  his  sleeve  up  and  down,  smiling 
at  him  with  the  eyes  of  an  impudent  newsboy. 

Daniel,  white  and  stiff,  jerked  away.  “Don’t  you 
understand  plain  language?  I  can  make  it  plainer 
for  you.”  He  pointed  to  the  door.  “Get  the  hell 
out  of  here  and  don’t  come  back.” 

She  dropped  her  hand  and  studied  his  face,  tight 
with  anger  and  distaste.  “Aw,  now,  be  reasonable. 
I  tell  you  I  couldn’t  help — ” 

He  went  to  the  table  and  brought  back  her  hat. 
“Now  get  out,”  he  said. 

She  took  it  slowly.  “Here’s  your  hat,  what’s 
your  hurry,  eh?”  She  pulled  it  down  over  her  ears, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


9i 


still  gazing  at  him,  unsmiling  and  unangered,  in 
growing  astonishment.  “All  right — if  that’s  the 
way  you  feel/’  She  started  away,  turning  at  the 
door.  “Well,  you  certainly  must  have  fell  in  love  to 
be  acting  this  way.  All  I  got  to  say  is  she’s  welcome 
to  you.”  She  threw  up  her  head,  made  an  impudent 
grimace  to  mock  his  fixed  air  of  anger  and  passed 
into  the  hall. 

Daniel  stared  after  her.  In  love?  Am  I  in  love? 
Perhaps  she’s  right.  That  would  explain  my  fevers 
and  changes.  Last  week  I  burned  for  that  low  girl 
of  the  streets.  Tonight  the  cornucopia  of  sex  was 
open  and  I  could  have  poured  forth  breasts  and 
arms,  thighs  and  delicately  padded  retreats.  Why 
did  I  not?  Simply  because  her  hair  was  not  red, 
her  eyes  held  no  reserves  and  she  did  not  speak  in 
the  voice  for  which  my  ears  are  vigilant.  Amy. 
Amy  Fiske.  You  have  killed  a  happy  hedonist. 

He  listened  to  heels  tapping  on  stone  until  sound 
no  longer  came  up  the  stairway.  Then  he  closed  the 
door  and  threw  himself  into  the  big  chair  to  gaze 
at  the  ceiling  with  vacant  sleepless  eyes. 


VII 

The  door  behind  Daniel  opened  and  closed.  He 
stopped  whistling  and  went  on  washing  his  hands. 

“Good  morning,  Mr.  Geer.” 

Daniel  looked  up  and  nodded.  The  young  re¬ 
porter  moved  further  into  the  room. 

“Just  heard  someone  saying  we’ve  been  picking 
up.  That’s  fine.”  His  bland  face,  diffident  and 
admiring,  turned  to  Daniel  for  comment. 

“Thanks.”  Daniel  whirled  the  towel  on  its 
roller,  seeking  an  unimprinted  surface.  The  re¬ 
porter,  embarrassed,  paused  and  shuffled  his  feet. 
He  passed  Daniel  and  went  through  a  small  door 
beyond. 

Daniel  pulled  down  his  cuffs,  his  mouth  twitching 
on  the  way  to  a  smile  of  cynicism.  Guess  I  must  be 
getting  hard-boiled.  Five  years  ago  I  would  have 
been  turning  somersaults  if  the  circulation  had 
responded  to  me  like  that.  Now  I  feel  like  a  female 
fly  whose  egg  output  is  five  thousand  more  on 
Wednesday  than  it  was  on  Tuesday.  Both  of  us 
engaged  in  multiplication  in  danger  of  a  descending 
swatter.  Trainer  must  have  heard  the  news.  He 
looks  glum  today.  If  I’d  listened  to  him  I  would 


92 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


93 


have  left  the  sporting  department  in  statu  quo, 
abandoned  my  idea  for  the  subway  campaign  and 
kept  that  demoded  moralist  in  charge  of  dramatics. 

The  open  skylight  that  sprang  above  the  men’s 
and  women’s  wash  rooms  admitted  voices  and  the 
sound  of  rushing  water.  .  .  .  “left  his  door  long 
enough  to  eat  .  .  .  .  get  that  idea  and 

you  .  . 

He  fastened  his  gaudy  cuff  buttons,  the  gift  of 
the  Newark  staff — “To  D.  B.  G.”  in  black  letters. 
Elliot  in  there  with  one  of  the  others.  Not  so  stiff 
when  my  eye  is  removed.  Knows  how  to  be  pleasant 
when  she  likes.  Wonder  why  she’s  always  watching 
around  my  door.  If  she  weren’t  so  good  at  her  job 
I’d  send  her  to  the  right  about  march.  She’s  laugh¬ 
ing  again.  One  of  those  stories,  I  suppose.  But 
when  a  man  tells  them  one  they  stiffen  their  back¬ 
bones.  Hypocrites  by  nature  and  convention. 
“.  .  .  saying  goodbye  like  a  movie  actress  .  .  . 
holding  her  hand.  .  .  .  wanted  at  a  conference  I 
said  and.  .  .  .  picked  it  out  of  the  basket.  .  .  .  red 
in  the  face.  .  .  .  temper  .  .  .  .  Rose,  some 

day  he’ll  .  .  .”  “.  .  .  worst  temper  but  .  . 

“.  .  .  stuck  on  him  if  you  ask.  .  .” 

He  buttoned  his  coat  and  marched  out.  Passing 
the  city  desk  he  beckoned  to  Trainer  who  followed 
him,  swinging  his  arms  in  faded  pink  cotton  that 
puffed  out  from  the  tight  armholes  of  his  vest  and 
bore  the  rings  of  summer  sweatings. 

“Want  me,  Mr.  Geer?” 


94 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Daniel  caught  up  his  hat  and  swung  about.  “ ‘Yes. 
Transfer  Miss  Elliot  to  another  department  and 
give  me  that  dark  girl — the  one  with  loose  hair.” 

“You  mean  Miss  Parks?  But  she’s  not  so  good 
as — ” 

“How  should  I  know  her  name?  Attend  to  it  at 
once,  please.  I’ll  want  her  after  luncheon.”  He 
brushed  by  Trainer  and  went  out  with  quick  steps, 
head  lowered  against  salutations  from  reporters, 
telephone  operators,  engravers  from  the  art  depart¬ 
ment  and  proof  readers,  circulating  in  the  city  room 
or  posted  in  gossiping  groups  of  selected  interests 
in  the  corridor. 

Outside  it  was  snowing.  Fat  flakes  clung  to  his 
cheeks  like  wet  lips.  Through  their  thickness  and 
motion  he  saw  the  geometrical  lines  of  buildings 
across  the  square,  blurred  into  romance.  The  white 
weightless  flakes,  falling  with  dignified  eagerness, 
merged  their  numbers  at  last  into  an  undivided 
covering  for  the  pavement  which  received  and 
silenced  the  feet  of  men  and  the  hooves  of  dray 
horses  bound  for  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

He  put  up  his  umbrella,  a  large  one  of  black 
cotton,  bought  two  years  since  in  a  Newark  shop 
during  a  hail  storm.  I’ll  walk  .before  luncheon.  Too 
angry  to  eat  now.  Probably  did  Elliot  a  favor  by 
transferring  her.  She  has  grudges  that  date  back 
to  my  first  dictation.  I’ll  work  better  now  that  the 
atmosphere  of  hatred  is  removed.  Saying  goodbye 
like  a  movie  actress.  Cinema  the  only  standard  of 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


95 


stenographers.  They  can’t  understand  a  back¬ 
ground  like  Amy’s  but  see  only  a  reflection  of 
meanly  patterned  manner. 

“Shine,  sir?” 

“Not  on  a  day  like  this.”  Two  inches  deep 
already.  Wind  rising  and  colder.  That  boy’s  shirt 
open  at  the  neck.  Better  circulation  than  mine. 
Always  cold  even  at  his  age.  Red  nose,  numb  feet 
and  fingers.  Sledding  in  discomfort.  Others  en¬ 
joy  it.  Even  the  girls.  They  say  a  woman’s  fat 
protects  her  from  cold.  As  long  distance  swimming. 
Then  how  do  they  stand  heat  so  well?  More  en¬ 
durance  the  answer.  Exercise  a  hateful  duty  to 
me.  Like  this  walk  now.  Starts  the  blood.  Mine 
flows  better  in  the  pleasant  months  of  release.  Re¬ 
lease  from  cold.  From  life.  From  Elliot.  From 
thoughts  of  Amy  Fiske.  A  movie  actress.  That 
damned  little  gossip.  Here’s  one  of  the  picture 
theatres  she  admires. 

He  stopped  to  examine  a  poster  over  which  the 
word  TODAY  had  been  pasted.  Looks  like  a  Nick 
Carter  serial.  Dead  woman  on  a  park  bench,  blood 
flowing  from  her  mouth.  Man  snatching  a  mask 
from  her  face.  He’s  wearing  a  mahogany  colored 
vest,  grey  striped  trousers,  red  and  white  shirt, 
white  canvas  shoes  with  red  straps.  A  cinema 
director’s  naive  conception  of  a  passional  crime 
costume.  Amy  saying  goodbye  like  a  movie  actress. 
Would  that  have  so  angered  me  had  Elliot  said  it 
of  some  other  girl?  Decidedly  not.  That’s  a  bad 


96 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


sign.  I  must  end  all  this  by  throwing  the  nuances  of 
Amy  Fiske  back  into  the  fifteenth  century  where 
they  belong. 

Bracing  the  umbrella  over  his  shoulder  against 
the  wind,  he  turned  and  began  stamping  his  feet. 
A  girl,  slight  and  with  a  rhythmic  walk,  came 
down  the  street  into  the  wind,  one  hand  making  a 
shelter  for  her  face.  Her  fur  coat  was  caked  with 
snow.  Water  dripped  from  the  brim  of  her  hat. 
Daniel  looked  up  and  his  nostrils  and  eyes  sprang 
wide.  He  took  bold  steps  toward  her,  hesitated, 
stopped.  The  slender  fur  figure  swayed  on  into 
whirls  of  snow.  Through  the  thick  gusts  that 
fell  between  them,  he  watched  her  grow  blurred 
and  small,  blinking  after  her  into  the  white 
storm. 

He  broke  into  a  run.  His  umbrella  tugged  at  his 
hand  as  he  raced  into  the  wind,  steering  him  into 
unexpected  balances  and  collisions  for  which  he 
took  no  time  to  apologize.  Snow  flew  into  his 
mouth  and  stung  his  eyes.  At  the  corner  of  the 
street  his  anguished  haste  brought  him  abreast  of 
her.  He  broke  his  pace  to  a  walk  and  bent  his 
head  to  hers,  watching  her  breathe  in  small  gasps  of 
distress,  eyes  half-closed  to  shut  out  the  beating 
snow  which  had  wet  her  face  and  hair  like  rain. 

“Miss  Fiske — may  I — you’re  very  wet — ” 

“Mr.  Geer !”  She  stood  still  and  turned  her  back 
to  the  wind.  “What  dreadful  weather!  And  I 
have  no  umbrella.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


97 


“Then  come  under  mine,”  said  Daniel. 

She  opened  her  purse  and  took  out  a  handker¬ 
chief.  While  she  dried  her  face  Daniel  covered 
her  with  the  umbrella,  panting  from  his  run,  his  pale 
eyes  wide  to  mark  every  gesture.  “I  was  almost 
afraid  to  speak  to  you,”  he  said. 

Amy  smiled  at  him  with  her  eyes.  “Nonsense,” 
she  said.  Her  voice  seemed  less  metallic  in  the 
curtains  of  snow  and  under  the  tent  of  the  umbrella 
had  all  the  close  intimacy  of  a  handclasp.  “Will  you 
take  me  to  the  subway,  Mr.  Geer?” 

He  shivered.  “Yes,  I  will  be  glad  to — yes,”  he 
said.  Throat  dry.  Hard  to  speak.  Wish  there 
were  a  cure  for  blushing.  Trembling  in  my  knees. 
Pull  myself  together  and  not  act  like  a  fool.  It’s 
awkward  because  I  can’t  ask  where  she’s  been 
without  running  a  risk  of  having  her  talk  about  a 
position.  Probably  she  was  at  the  Standard  of 
Unity  offices  asking  for  a  chance. 

They  began  to  walk.  “You  are  very  kind,”  Amy 
said.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  slipped  it  through 
his  arm  in  confident  comradeship.  Without  volition 
his  muscles  tightened  and  pressed  her  hand  against 
his  side.  I’m  made  divinely  drunk  by  her  touch.  I 
burn  even  in  this  cold  wetness.  For  the  first  time  I 
perceive  the  bitter  beauty  of  snow.  I  could  strip 
off  the  ugly  garments  of  this  practical  age  and  roll 
naked  in  that  stinging  powder.  Her  hand  sends 
fluid  fire  to  my  heart  and  a  winged  impulse  to  my 
feet.  I  could  walk  on  through  wind  and  ice,  my 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


98 

senses  enchanted  by  her  hand  at  my  heart,  and  think 
I  wandered  in  an  elated  meadow. 

“This  isn’t  one  of  your  communicative  days,” 
said  Amy.  “I  hope  all  goes  well  at  your  office?” 

“Very  well,”  said  Daniel.  “I  was  thinking. 
Now  you’ll  say  again  that  I  am  rude.” 

“Not  if  you  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking,” 
said  Amy.  Her  fingers  on  his  arm  urged  him  to 
speak  and  he  turned  to  meet  her  green  eyes  filled 
with  secret  understanding. 

“I’m  afraid  I  shouldn’t  dare.  Yet — if  you  wish 
—  This  is  part  of  it.  I  was  seeing  for  the  first 
time  that  snow  could  be  beautiful  and  I  wondered 
if  I  could  find  relief  if  it  should  touch  me — com¬ 
pletely.” 

He  looked  away  to  avoid  her  quick  question, 
“Relief  from  what?” 

“From  my  thoughts — from  emotions  that  I  don’t 
understand.  I  can’t  explain.  Perhaps  women  never 
feel  what  I  mean.” 

Amy  laughed,  the  metallic  sound  again  come  into 
her  voice.  “Perhaps  they  don’t  feel  it  so  often, 
Mr.  Geer.”  Her  fingers  no  longer  pressed  his 
arm  and  she  walked,  eyes  hidden  and  lips  curled 
slightly  as  if  at  a  cynical  memory. 

His  face  chilled  and  he  stared  ahead  at  the  sub¬ 
way  kiosk,  grey  through  the  snow-filled  air.  Now 
she’ll  think  me  an  egoist  like  the  rest  talking  un¬ 
endingly  about  myself.  What  I  feel,  how  well  I’m 
doing  in  business,  anecdotes  of  college,  my  average 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


99 


golf  score,  what  I  think,  if  anything,  about  every¬ 
thing.  Shall  I  tell  her  I’d  rather  talk  of  her? 
No — she’d  think  me  impertinent. 

They  stopped  to  perform  the  gestures  of  parting. 
Now  she'll  go  down  those  steps  and  return  to  the 
small  circumstances  of  a  life  unknown  to  me.  How 
green  and  water-bright  are  her  eyes!  Trying  to 
read  my  thoughts.  We’re  still  together  under  our 
shelter  but  here  where  men  and  women  pass  in  con¬ 
fusion  there  is  no  longer  that  feeling  of  being 
isolated  in  a  white  cloud. 

“Come  to  tea,”  Amy  said.  “I’ll  send  you  a  note.” 
For  the  first  time  since  their  meeting  she  smiled  and 
he  saw  the  shining  pointed  teeth  in  their  framing  of 
thin  red.  She  turned  and  left  him  receiving  the 
force  of  the  storm  on  his  bared  head.  He  watched 
her  pass  down  among  the  unimportant  figures  of  her 
background,  his  cotton  umbrella  trailing  down  from 
her  hand. 


VIII 


An  hibernal  wind  untempered  by  the  pale  after¬ 
noon  sunlight  blew  across  Riverside  Drive  but 
Daniel  lingered  there,  walking  with  unwilling  steps. 
I’m  eaten  by  fevers  that  have  taken  my  volition. 
Instead  of  sitting  among  my  books  I  quakingly 
advance  on  number  two  hundred  Riverside  Drive 
shivering  from  nerves  and  this  devilish  wind.  The 
first  time  I’ve  been  out  of  control  since  my  awaken¬ 
ing  fifteen  years  ago.  Gladys.  Over-plump  and 
protuberant-eyed.  Youth  and  my  freshman  taste 
made  her  seem  as  sweet  as  the  land  of  Lebanon. 
That  morning  in  class  when  I  touched  her  skirt 
secretly.  Old  Ironsides  saw  my  gesture  and  called 
on  me  in  puritanical  voice.  Youth  and  its  enemy 
knowledge.  Fetters  in  place  of  fetes.  Merciless 
mounds  of  learning  raised  by  imperious  older  gen¬ 
erations  to  satisfy  their  instinct  for  pedagogy. 
Inscriptions  over  college  doors  should  read 
CAVEAT  EMPTOR — the  purchase  is  at  your 
own  risk.  It  is  not  here  that  youth  will  find  the 
golden  fleece.  Number  two  hundred.  My  golden 
fleece  within. 

He  stopped  before  a  wide  stone  door  and  stared 


IOO 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


IOI 


at  the  neatly  cut  number  above  it.  Two  children 
in  fawn-colored  coats  for  their  Sunday  walk  came 
from  the  doorway,  their  nurse  fatly  bustling  behind 
them.  The  boy  began  to  shout  and  run.  The 
girl  stood  by  Daniel’s  side  and  gazed  at  the  ball  of 
tissue  paper  in  his  hand.  He  turned  up  his  collar 
and  walked  on.  Even  that  child  sees  I  am  ridic¬ 
ulously  situated — windblown  with  anachronistic 
violets  held  sentimentally  upright,  not  walking  far 
enough  away  from  the  door  to  matter,  not  daring 
to  enter.  No  agamous  being  would  understand  my 
feverish  ailment.  Turn  back.  Succeed  by  driving 
feet.  But  calmly,  calmly.  She  must  not  see  in¬ 
decision  and  confusion.  Probably  there  will  be  a 
Bostonian  atmosphere  of  Henry  James  and  faint 
aristocratic  breathings,  legends  of  birth  and  blood 
running  blue.  True  blue.  Bloody  blue.  Let  them 
have  it.  Perhaps  it’s  pleasantly  stimulating  to  re¬ 
flect  on  one’s  cultured  forebears.  Mother  had  some 
ancestors,  she  says,  that  came  over  with  Lafayette. 
De  something.  Might  have  it  looked  up  and  refer  to 
him  casually.  Hope  the  aunt  doesn’t  say,  “Geer? 
Geer?  Curious  name.  One  of  the  Frothingham 
Geers  of  Marblehead?”  I’ve  read  they  do  that 
through  a  lorgnette.  Hall  boy  looking  at  me. 
Might  give  him  the  violets.  No.  I’ll  be  valiant — 
like  my  ancestor  De-What’s-His-Name.  Boy,  an¬ 
nounce  the  Chevalier  de  Geer  of  an  inextinguishable 
royaume. 

Upstairs  a  maid  opened  the  door  and  received 


102 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Daniel’s  coat.  He  followed  her  through  the  ob¬ 
scurity  of  a  long  padded  hall  and  into  the  formality 
of  a  Venitian  drawing-room.  Her  voice  meets  me 
at  the  door.  Not  alone.  The  grimalkin  is  at  her 
post,  guarding  with  uneasy  claws. 

Amy's  profile  detached  itself  from  the  dark 
wood  of  a  high  backed  chair.  She  arose,  clothed 
in  Confucian  yellow,  and  came  to  Daniel’s  hesitant 
hand. 

“Did  you  have  my  note?  Thank  you  for  the 
roses.  They  were  beautiful.” 

“Is  someone  with  you?  Your  aunt — ” 

The  lights  in  Amy’s  eyes  became  fixed.  “Aunt? 
What  aunt?  I  have  no  aunt,  Mr.  Geer.”  She  led 
him  across  the  room  and  spoke  in  her  metallic  voice. 
“I  want  you  to  know  Mr.  Harrington,  Mr.  Geer.” 

A  tall  young  man  with  a  classic  head  dragged 
himself  up  from  his  cushions  and  held  out  a  hand 
that  drooped  at  the  wrist.  His  eyes,  brown  and 
deeply  set,  wandered  over  Daniel  with  indifference 
and  went  to  watch  Amy  as  she  placed  herself  at 
the  tea-table.  Then  he  sank  back  and  arranged  him¬ 
self  into  an  impeccable  attitude.  Daniel  looked  from 
chair  to  chair,  sat  down  near  Amy  and  stood  again, 
holding  out  the  violets. 

“I  hope  these  are  not  frozen,”  he  said  and  went 
back  to  his  chair. 

Amy  murmured  “Thank  you”  and  Daniel  stared 
at  her  hands.  Forgot  to  take  off  that  damned  tissue 
paper.  Another  blunder.  I’ll  apologize  when  that 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


103 


tailor’s  model  goes.  His  face  swelled  with  blood 
and  he  glanced  at  the  young  man  who  was  looking 
at  some  blue  hyacinths  that  stood  in  a  white  por¬ 
celain  bowl  at  his  shoulder.  From  him  probably. 
Supercilious  eyebrows.  He’s  thinking  of  his  rarer 
taste  in  flowers.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  cut 
hyacinths.  Can  he  be  Sydney-my-dear  ?  A  languid 
catamite,  he  looks,  in  need  of  a  hair-cut.  I  wonder 
what  women  see  in  men  of  that  type.  They  put  them 
on  a  cushion  and  feed  them  a  bowl  of  cream  and 
listen  to  them  quote  poetry,  I  daresay.  He  doesn’t 
like  my  intrusion,  that’s  plain.  Probably  suggested 
she  say  not  at  home. 

“How  is  your  newspaper,  Mr.  Geer?  Do  its 
needs  still  transcend  those  of  humanity?”  asked 
Amy. 

The  young  man  turned  his  consummate  profile 
from  the  hyacinths  and  examined  Daniel’s  ready¬ 
made  suit  and  haphazard  tie  as  he  spoke.  “Oh,  do 
you  write?  How  interesting!” 

“No,  I  don’t,”  said  Daniel. 

“Mr.  Geer  is  an  editor — a  very  frank  and  blunt 
person,”  put  in  Amy  with  a  nod  of  emphasis. 

“An  editor?  That  requires  a  great  deal  of  con¬ 
centration,  I’m  sure,”  said  the  young  man  with  frank 
malice. 

Amy  frowned  at  him  and  lifted  a  silver  tea-pot 
from  the  tray.  “How  do  you  like  your  tea,  Mr. 
Geer?” 

“Thank  you.  No  tea,”  said  Daniel. 


104  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

“You’re  making  a  mistake.  This  is  no  ordinary 
tea.  It’s  from  China,  green  and  with  jasmine 
flowers.  An  expert’s  special  mixture.” 

“No,  thank  you,”  said  Daniel,  his  mouth  tight. 
I  hope  he  doesn’t  guess  why  I  refuse.  Taking  tea 
an  art  he  has  perfected  from  daily  sipping  among 
mirrors  and  smart  women.  My  tea  technique  has 
never  been  tested.  I’ll  drop  no  spoons  and  saucers 
for  his  malicious  mirth.  His  face  changes  as  he 
watches  her  brightness,  his  eyes  as  pensive  as  a 
calf’s.  He  wants  two  lumps  of  sugar  and  cream. 
I  knew  he  liked  cream.  Cushions  and  cream. 

Sitting  with  knees  pressed  together  and  fingers 
twisted,  Daniel  waited  while  Amy  filled  cups  with 
gracious  gestures  and  a  flow  of  bright  yellow 
sleeves  about  her  hands.  The  young  man  sat  in 
careless  elegance,  slim-waisted,  a  half-smile  on  his 
Greek  lips,  a  spatted  ankle  in  gentle  motion. 

“I  found  a  charming  thing  yesterday  by  Gaultier 
de  Coincy.  I  must  bring  it  to  you.  Of  course 
you  know  him,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“No,  I  don’t,”  said  Daniel.  “I  have  no  time  for 
obscure  writers.  I  work  for  a  living.”  Let  him 
digest  that  with  his  tea.  She  eyes  me  for  my  tone 
thinking  rude  again. 

“Oh,  yes.  So  many  people  do,”  said  the  young 
man.  “Er — ah — was  it  raining  when  you  came  in?” 

“No,”  said  Daniel.  Damn  his  soul.  He  might 
just  as  well  ask  me  “What  can  you  talk  about?”  as 
to  say  “Was  it  raining  when  you  came  in?”  That’s 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


105 


how  I  treat  Andrew.  Now  my  turn  to  be  patronized. 
Justice  .balanced.  What  is  she  thinking?  Does 
she  want  me  to  go  and  leave  her  to  an  hour  with 
the  muses  new  and  old?  No,  or  she  would  have  told 
the  hall-boy  to  keep  the  bull  out  of  the  china.  I 
move  too  rudely  for  these  two  delicate  ornaments. 

“Elizabeth  saw  you  at  Kuan-Yin’s  yesterday,” 
said  Amy.  “She  said  you  were  wearing  your  in¬ 
flexible  bargaining  expression.  Did  you  buy  some¬ 
thing?”  She  turned  to  Daniel.  “Mr.  Harrington 
has  a  rather  famous  collection  of  Chinese  pottery.” 

“Is  that  so?”  said  Daniel  more  pleasantly.  “I’ve 
seen  two  or  three  Ming  examples.  I  suppose  you 
have  any  number  of  them.” 

Mr.  Harrington  looked  into  his  tea  and  stirred  it. 
“Ah,  not  exactly.  They’re — well,  a  bit  late,  you 
know.” 

“I  see,”  said  Daniel.  That  will  teach  me  to  hold 
my  tongue.  I  should  have  known  better  than  to 
expose  myself.  He  gives  lamb-like  bleats  when  she 
looks  his  way  but  he’s  like  a  snake  in  his  ill-will 
toward  me.  I  won’t  speak  again  until  he  goes.  An 
aunt  and  a  forest  of  family  trees  would  have  been 
better  than  his  poison.  Damned  china  fancier.  She’s 
looking  at  me.  I’ll  have  to  say  something.  But 
what  ?  Something.  Hurry.  Kill  the  pause.  Some¬ 
thing  general.  Theatre. 

“Do  you  go  to  the  theatre  often,  Miss  Fiske?” 

“Is  there  something  to  see  this  winter?”  darted 
the  young  man. 


io6  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

Amy  laughed,  leaning  back  with  relaxed  round 
body.  “Don’t  mind  him,  Mr.  Geer.  He  loathes  the 
theatre.  His  tastes  are  few  and  rare.  A  real 
eclectic.” 

“He’s  quite  right  there,”  said  Daniel.  “The 
theatre  is  operated  only  for  the  kitchen.” 

“Ah,  yes,”  murmured  Mr.  Harrington,  disdainful 
dark  eyes  on  Daniel.  He  rose  with  a  long  waving 
motion.  “I  must  be  running  on,  Amy.  I’m  dining 
the  Marchesino  tonight.  Goodbye.”  He  nodded  at 
Daniel  and  went  to  Amy,  saying  as  he  lifted  her 
hand,  “I’ll  bring  you  the  verses.” 

Amy  looked  over  at  Daniel  and  while  he  stood 
in  indecision  before  his  chair  she  left  him  and  went 
across  the  room  with  the  young  man.  They  stopped 
near  the  door,  he  swaying  as  he  talked,  a  hand 
smoothing  the  back  of  his  head,  the  other  moving  in 
languid  small  gestures.  Daniel  sat  down  and  lis¬ 
tened  for  his  words. 

“.  .  .  .  Adam  of  Saint- Victor  .  .  .  mediaeval 
philosophy  .  .  .  rolling  Latin  sonorities  .  .  . 

.  .  .  west  portal  of  Chartres  .  .  .  living  sym¬ 
bols  .  .  .  poetry  .  .  .  the  Virgin  ...  his 
simple  rhythms  .  .  .  Cantico  del  Sole  .  . 

He  began  to  beat  the  air  as  if  he  held  a  baton. 
“.  .  .  consolatrix  miserorum,  suscitiatrix  mortu- 
orum  .  .  .”  Amy  raised  a  hand,  crying,  “But 
no  organ!  Plaint  chant  .  .  .  San  Paulo  fuori  le 
Mura  .  .  .  Chartres  .  .  .”  They  were  inclined  to¬ 
ward  each  other’s  faces,  yellow  brushing  against 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


107 

dark  brown  of  perfect  tailoring  as  they  passed 
through  the  door. 

Daniel  looked  about  him  with  dazed  face.  Latin 
verse.  The  roar  of  the  presses  more  familiar  to  me. 
Cultural  rarities  for  them  while  all  I  know  is  how  to 
get  a  newspaper  into  the  street  on  time.  Rugs  from 
Asia.  My  poor  little  Mexico.  An  Italian  primitive 
— school  unknown  to  my  ignorance.  My  cheap 
Hiroshige.  All  those  books  there  probably  first 
editions.  Must  look  at  them.  Breach  of  manners? 
I  don’t  know.  I  don’t  care.  Persian  art.  Picture  of 
Darius  stylus  on  cover,  beard  in  formal  curls.  This 
soldier  was  a  Persian  slave.  Dead  he  is  as  great  as 
great  Darius.  Greek  fragment.  Swinburne,  too. 
Implacable  Aphrodite.  Nice  adjective  I  always  re¬ 
member.  Viollet-le-Duc.  Stained  glass  authority. 
She’s  a  'long  time  out  there.  How  interested  in 
him?  Vases  and  verses  instead  of  a  day’s  work. 
Despising  him,  I  squirmed  for  shame,  conscious  of 
my  social  deficiencies.  I  am  really  as  crude  a  man 
as  father  or  Bob  or  Andrew.  Ready-made  clothes, 
no  tea-tabie  ease,  no  small  talk,  no  erudition,  no 
hobbies.  Not  even  a  decent  college.  That  man 
probably  went  to  Oxford.  I’m  out  of  place  here. 
Perhaps  they’re  saying  so  now,  laughing  at  me  as 
they  talk  in  the  hall. 

Amy  came  back  through  the  growing  dimness 
of  the  room,  her  yellow  dress  moving  among  the 
dark  chairs  and  heavily  carved  tables.  As  she 
passed  the  window  her  hair  caught  at  the  dying 


io8  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

sunlight  and  kept  for  a  moment  its  brightness. 
Then  she  touched  the  wall  and  a  glow  appeared 
in  a  wrought  iron  lantern  over  her  head.  She 
sat  down  beneath  it  and  looked  through  the 
shadows  at  Daniel  an  arm’s  length  from  her 
side. 

“Now  we  can  talk,”  she  said,  clasping  her  hands 
about  her  knee.  “Tell  me — why  did  you  think  I 
had  an  aunt?” 

He  made  a  confused  and  awkward  gesture.  I 
knew  that  would  come.  Detective  instinct.  Next 
she’ll  connect  me  with  the  mysterious  telephone  call. 
“I  don’t  know  why  I  invented  an  aunt,”  he  said. 
“Probably  because  I  didn’t  think  you  would  be 
living  alone.” 

“No  more  am  I,”  she  said.  “I  was  lent  this  place 
by  a  cousin  of  my  mother’s  who  is  at  Palm  Beach. 
Elizabeth  Corning  is  staying  with  me — an  old 
friend.  As  soon  as  I  find  something  to  do  I  must 
move.  Where  I  don’t  know.  Small  apartment, 
furnished  room,  garret  perhaps.”  She  smiled  and 
spread  out  her  hands,  head  tilted  back  under  the 
glow  of  the  lamp.  Her  eyelids,  threaded  with  veins 
of  blue  and  red  and  purple,  were  as  thin  as  if  they 
had  been  scraped.  Still  smiling,  she  sighed  and  bent 
her  head. 

Daniel  in  his  moyen-age  chair  watched  the  lights 
and  shadows  on  red  hair  and  yellow  dress,  his 
nostrils  dilated  to  catch  her  perfume,  his  hands  in 
trembling  awkard  pressure  on  his  knees.  The  forces 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


109 

of  my  repressed  years  shaking  me  from  reasoned 
processes.  I  must  go.  Go  now. 

He  stood  and  at  his  movement  Amy  held  out  her 
-hand  to  him  and  smiled.  “Ah,  not  yet,”  she  said. 
He  seized  her  fingers  and  pressed  them  between  his 
palms.  His  eyebrows  strained  up  and  his  pale  eyes 
fixed  themselves  on  her  face,  staring  at  it  as  if 
they  were  being  compelled  outward  from  his  head. 
He  began  to  tremble  in  great  paroxysms. 

“Amy,  Amy,  Amy,”  he  said  in  a  frightened  voice, 
stopping  only  to  stumble  on  again,  driven  out  of  his 
volition.  “Amy — I  love  you.”  He  went  on  his 
knees  by  her  side,  still  gripping  her  fingers  under 
whitened  knuckles. 

She  gave  a  cry  and  pulled  away  her  hand.  “My 
scarab,”  she  said.  “You’re  hurting  me.” 

He  looked  down  at  the  red  mark  sunk  into  her 
finger  as  deeply  as  a  cut  and  laid  his  congested  face 
over  her  hand.  Her  perfumed  fingers  lay  under  his 
mouth  and  he  breathed  through  them.  “Love  you — 
night  and  day — wonderful  Amy — not  angry — oh, 
tell  me  not — never  before — oh,  no,  no,  no, — others 
— pf 00000 f — but  this — what  joy — heat — all  motion 
in  one — Amy — Amy — ” 

She  pressed  upward  against  his  face  with  her 
hands  and  said  in  a  voice  that  was  measured  and  dry, 
“What  do  you  want  of  me?” 

Daniel,  stiff  and  shaking  at  her  feet,  lifted  his 
head  from  her  knees.  “My  God,  I  don’t  know.” 
His  eyes,  bloodshot  and  half  closed,  went  from  her 


no 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


cryptic  eyes  to  the  red  line  of  her  mouth,  to  her  high 
pointed  breasts.  “I — I  want  to  marry  you — I 
suppose.  I  never  thought  I’d  want  to  marry — until 
now.  Yes,  that’s  it.  Marriage.  You — ” 

She  jerked  at  his  arm.  ‘‘Get  up.  Elizabeth  Corn¬ 
ing  is  coming.”  He  stared  at  her  from  blind  eyes 
and  pulled  himself  to  his  feet.  Amy  left  her  chair 
and  made  him  a  sign.  “Your  hair — ” 

He  went  to  the  window,  dishevelled,  stumbling. 
Some  sort  of  seizure.  What  have  I  done?  I  must 
be  mad.  Inexplicable.  Ungovernable.  Her  voice 
soft.  Her  eyes  green  as  that  day  in  the  restaurant 
when  she  said  “Forgive  me.”  Pointed  nails  did 
not  scratch.  Can’t  be  introduced  like  this.  Keep 
Coming  out.  Smooth  hair  in  glass  over  Chinese 
print.  I’ve  just  been  insane.  Like  epilepsy.  Was 
she  frightened?  Wonder  she  didn’t  ring  for  an 
ambulance.  Be  calm.  Forget  perfume,  mouth, 
hands,  round  knees,  Ready  to  face  both?  No. 
They’ll  speak  in  a  moment.  Laughing  at  door.  At 
me?  That’s  why  they  call  shame  burning.  It 
scorches  the  skin  and  boils  the  blood.  Boiling  blood 
in  my  head.  Room  not  lighted.  She  won’t  turn 
lights  on,  remembering  me — 

“Mr.  Geer!” 

He  turned  his  face  into  the  room  and  as  he  ad¬ 
vanced  to  greet  Miss  Corning  he  projected  from  the 
light  that  entered  from  the  street  behind  him  a  gro¬ 
tesque  griffin-like  shadow  that  rose  against  the 
hangings  on  the  wall.  Miss  Corning,  a  tall  thin 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


hi 


woman  with  keen  eyes,  shook  hands  with  a  brief 
clasp  and  almost  immediately  sat  down  near  the 
lamp.  Daniel,  fixed  on  a  long  ochre  swirl  in  the 
rug,  looked  toward  the  door.  Escape.  Escape. 
Can’t  survive  an  ordered  conversation.  Dizzy  with 
boiling  blood.  Nausea  too.  Must  have  air.  Both 
looking  at  me.  Amy  not  smiling.  Other  question¬ 
ing.  Say  something.  Say,  can  you  see — 

“Sorry  to  go  just  as  you  come  in — but  work  at 
the  office  is  waiting — ”  Not  bad.  It  slipped  out 
without  my  knowing. 

“Of  course,”  said  Miss  Corning.  “Amy  has  told 
me  how  busy — ” 

“Yes,  of  course,”  he  mumbled.  “Well,  good¬ 
bye.”  He  bowed  and  went  to  the  door.  Long 
room.  Long  walk.  Legs  shaky.  She’s  coming 
behind  me.  I’m  ill — sick — what  will  she  say?  Out 
quickly.  Shake  myself  out  of  this.  Be  normal.  My 
coat.  Put  it  on  outside.  Lethargy.  Out  of  here 
before  another  brainstorm.  He  threw  his  coat  over 
his  arm  and  caught  up  his  hat. 

Amy  came  to  his  side  and  held  out  her  hand.  He 
stepped  away  from  her  toward  the  door  but  she 
touched  his  arm.  “Mr.  Geer — ” 

He  turned  and  bent  toward  her,  swaying  a  little, 
his  face  dark  with  blood. 

“No,  no,”  she  whispered.  “I’ll  write  you  tonight.” 
She  took  his  hand  and  at  her  slight  pressure  his  eyes 
closed. 

“Amy,  Amy,  Amy — ”  His  arm  groped  for  her. 


1 12 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


She  opened  the  door  for  him  and  her  eyelids  fell 
slowly  to  screen  her  enigmatic  gaze.  He  went 
through  the  door  and  turned  to  see  her  again.  She 
stood  waiting,  her  hands  calmly  at  her  side,  her 
head  bent  a  little,  her  face  pale  and  secret  above  the 
yellow  of  her  dress. 


PART  II 


I 

“What  time  do  we  arrive  ?”  Amy  turned  in  her 
padded  green  chair  and  looked  at  Daniel  from  be¬ 
neath  the  looped  edges  of  her  veil.  Before  he  could 
draw  out  his  watch  she  was  again  questioning  the 
field  that  moved  by  their  windows,  her  eyes  gray 
in  the  gray  afternoon  light  and  ringed  about  by 
wistful  mauve  shadows. 

“In  half  an  hour,”  said  Daniel.  He  replaced  his 
watch  and  squirmed  forward  in  the  fat  chair.  “Are 
you  tired?”  He  put  out  his  hand,  let  it  hover  above 
her  knee  and  drew  it  back. 

“No,”  she  said,  “but  trains  always  bore  me.  In 
Europe  one  can  smoke  at  least.” 

“You  can  smoke  at  tea,”  he  said.  “We’ll  have 
tea  as  soon  as  we  get  in.”  He  hesitated,  put  out 
his  hand  again  and  laid  it  on  her  knee.  “Don’t  be 
bored,  please — our  first  day — ”  He  glanced  across 
the  aisle  and  pressed  her  knee.  He  seized  the  list¬ 
less  gloved  hand  near  him.  “Amy,”  he  said,  pulling 
at  her.  “Amy.” 

She  turned  and  came  forward  to  him.  “Yes, 
Daniel?” 

He  raised  himself  halfway  from  his  chair  and 
115 


Ii6 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  As  she  drew  away  with 
a  quick  movement  of  her  head  the  train  lurched 
and  sent  him  stumbling  into  the  aisle,  his  hand  drag¬ 
ging  away  the  orchids  she  wore.  He  picked  them 
up,  fragile,  purple,  moist.  “I’m  sorry,”  he  said. 
“That  was  awkward  of  me.”  He  put  the  flowers  on 
her  knees  and  set  to  brushing  the  shins  of  his  new 
brown  suit,  presently  lifting  a  red  and  embarrassed 
face  to  hers. 

She  disregarded  his  activities,  looking  beyond  him 
with  impersonal  eyes  as  if  accepting  the  apology 
of  a  stranger  who  had  stumbled  over  her  foot.  “Oh, 
not  in  public,  please,”  she  said.  “Really,  Daniel, 
I — ,”  She  turned  to  the  window  a  frown  of  dis¬ 
pleasure  creasing  the  skin  between  her  eyes.  “All 
that  is  monotonous  before  it  is  changed  by  spring,” 
she  said  after  a  moment.  “But  I  could  ride  through 
fresh  green  country  for  hours.” 

Daniel  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  high  fore¬ 
head.  He  poked  it  back  into  his  pocket  and  sat 
twisting  his  fingers.  “But,  Amy,  it  wasn’t  in 
public,”  he  protested,  leaning  toward  the  pale  pro¬ 
file.  “See — ours  are  the  last  two  seats  in  the  car. 
And  no  one  opposite.” 

“It’s  the  feeling  of  being  in  public,”  she  said.  “I 
suppose  I’m  sensitive  about  such  things.  I  feel  as 
if  everyone  were  watching  us  and  saying — well, 
you  know  the  usual  pleasantries — ”  She  blushed 
faintly  and  moved  in  her  chair.  “Please  hand  me 
that  small  bag,  Daniel.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


ii  7 

He  lifted  it  down  from  the  rack  and  placed  it  on 
his  chair,  standing  beside  her  while  she  took  out  a 
book  of  soft  red  leather  from  folds  of  silk  and  lace. 
Daniel’s  eyes  fastened  on  a  pair  of  slippers,  gray 
brocade  and  gray  fur,  that  lay  resting  on  each  other 
like  two  curious  kittens  asleep  in  perfumed  security 
and  warmth. 

“Thank  you,”  she  said.  Her  lips  parted  in  a  smile, 
abstract  and  unreflective. 

At  this  tepid  signal  Daniel  crushed  her  hand  in 
his,  bending  above  her  in  an  adoring  arc  of  brown 
tweed.  “To  think  you  are  really  my  wife — willing 
to  be  alone — ” 

She  pulled  away  her  hand.  “The  conductor  wants 
to  pass,  Daniel.  Please  sit  down.”  She  bent  her 
head  and  opened  the  book. 

He  replaced  the  bag  in  the  rack  and  sat  down.  Of 
course  she’s  nervous  and  sensitive.  Every  girl  is 
when  on  her  honeymoon.  She  blushed,  her  cheeks 
changing  their  temperature  in  indication  of  inex¬ 
perience.  That  cold  manner  comes  from  training, 
not  familiarity  with  men.  A  relief  to  know  Sydney 
is  married.  Otherwise  she  might  have  been  in¬ 
terested  in  him.  Furry  little  slippers,  open  to  re¬ 
ceive  warm  white  feet.  They  looked  new.  Perhaps 
she  bought  them  to  please  my  eyes — with  my  check. 
Not  many  girls  would  have  been  so  frank  about 
money.  They  would  have  given  excuses  and  put 
off  the  marriage.  Mother  waited  a  year  until  she 
could  fill  her  linen  chest.  “Thank  you,  Daniel.” 


n8  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

Dan-i-el.  That  was  the  first  time  she  kissed  me, 
check  fluttering  to  the  rug.  Not  to  tell  her  mother 
about  it.  She’d  make  a  row,  Amy  thinks.  My  wife 
thinks.  My  wife.  “Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
wife,  Mr.  Bird.”  He’ll  open  his  eyes.  So  will 
Trainer.  I’ll  parade  her  around  the  office  when  she 
comes  to  fetch  me  for  dinner.  Her  mother  will  be 
furious.  She  must  have  the  letter  by  now.  Prob¬ 
ably  wanted  her  to  marry  a  pedigreed  case  of  gout. 
She’ll  mourn  for  having  missed  the  pleasant  grief 
of  orange  blossom  and  Mendelssohn.  A  fancy  dis¬ 
play  of  mumble- jumble  in  their  episcopal  church  in 
Boston.  Glad  Amy  is  no  church  hound.  Had 
enough  of  that  in  my  life  with  father.  Religion 
like  a  fungus  growth  in  his  mind.  He’ll  be  in  a 
famous  rage  when  he  hears.  Amy  must  guess  why 
I  didn’t  arrange  a  family  meeting.  I  couldn’t  have 
endured  her  worldly  eyes  on  mother’s  hands. 
Fathers  grammar  and  ill-humor.  Worse  now  he’s 
failing.  Bob  still  sore.  My  refusal  of  a  double 
wedding  didn’t  set  very  well.  They  must  under¬ 
stand  that  Amy  is  out  of  their  class.  Effie  and  Amy, 
brides  at  a  double  wedding  in  Newark!  Afterward 
a  family  meal.  Effie’s  deaf  brother  in  the  coal  busi¬ 
ness.  Ruth,  Andrew  and  the  three  sourlings.  An¬ 
drew’s  sly  hints  about  progeny.  Mother  talking 
about  my  boyhood.  Father’s  fears  that  all  my  salary 
going  to  my  wife.  My  wife.  She’s  my  wife. 

He  gazed  at  her  face,  bent  on  her  book  with  mild, 
impersonal  pleasure.  Baudelaire.  Her  taste  is  as 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


119 

admirable  as  her  breeding.  How  possessed,  how 
calm !  To  look  at  her  is  to  think  of  the  arrogancies 
of  an  empire,  galleons  of  gold,  hennins  with  floating 
veils,  falcons  and  palfreys,  lutes,  spinnets  and  flageo¬ 
lets.  She’s  as  delicately  haughty  as  a  Donatello 
bust.  Old  wine  in  her  veins  for  my  inebriation. 
She  will  be  charming  tonight.  A  passionate  potion. 

His  eyes  left  her  face  to  linger  on  the  flesh  of 
her  throat,  spreading  down,  satin-smooth.  The 
miracle  of  womens’  softness.  They  make  scepters 
of  their  skins.  They  mount  to  thrones  on  epidermal 
steps.  Under  glass  the  scientist  studies  gaping  pores 
and  hairs  of  monstrous  size,  but  the  poet  lays  his 
fingers  on  a  velvet  plane  and  indites  strophes  to  a 
strumpet. 

He  examined  the  luxury  of  her  suit,  the  fur  coat 
behind  her,  its  gold  cloth  lining  veiled  with  chiffon, 
the  silk  ankles,  the  narrow  shoes  with  their  bright 
buckles.  His  eyes  became  contracted  with  calcula¬ 
tions.  She  must  be  wearing  a  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  clothes.  Not  very  practical,  I’m  afraid. 
She’ll  have  to  learn  economy.  I  mustn’t  tell  her  my 
salary.  Hold  a  tight  rein  on  expenses.  Every  man 
wants  to  save  enough  to  go  into  business  for  him¬ 
self  some  day.  Spend  so  much,  save  so  much. 
Later  when  I  get  a  raise  we’ll  move  into  a  larger 
apartment.  Might  refurnish  the  bedroom  when  she 
goes  to  Boston.  Wonder  if  she  sews.  I  should 
like  to  come  home  and  find  her  under  my  reading 
lamp  with  something  white  in  her  lap.  A  pity 


120 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


women  don’t  embroider  any  more,  sitting  before  a 
frame,  their  long  white  hands  weaving  colors. 
Like  Matilda  and  her  ladies  at  Bayeux.  That  tapes¬ 
try  a  bit  indecent  after  the  manner  of  the  times  but 
I  daresay  William  didn’t  mind  her  depicting  lusty 
men  and  horses.  By  the  way,  I  mustn’t  forget  to 
give  her  that  Hindoo  book.  Later  on,  of  course. 
It  would  shock  her  now.  Dalliances  in  love,  laid  out 
like  so  many  exact  geometrical  figures  in  coffee 
color.  Ananga  Ranga.  Sounds  like  an  incantation. 
Open  Sesame.  Secrets  for  coaxing  the  frigid.  I’ll 
lend  it  to  Elliot’s  husband  if  she  ever  gets  one. 
He’ll  need  it.  She  didn’t  congratulate  me.  Look 
of  reproach  in  the  corridor  instead.  She’s  never 
forgiven  me  for  the  transfer. 

Amy  closed  her  book  and  shivered.  “I’ll  put  on 
my  coat,  I  think,”  she  said.  “It’s  unusually  cold  for 
Easter.” 

He  jumped  to  lift  the  coat  from  the  back  of 
her  chair.  She  slipped  her  arms  into  the  sleeves, 
the  back  of  her  hat  touching  his  face.  Perfumed 
warmth  rose  from  her  neck.  He  breathed  it  in  be¬ 
fore  turning  her  about.  “You’re  cold  because  you’re 
nervous  today,”  he  said,  whispering  the  words  to 
impress  their  secret  meaning.  Her  eyes  caught  at 
his,  then  slipped  away.  Her  gloved  hands  fumbled 
at  fastenings  hidden  in  fur. 

“We’re  getting  in,  I  think,”  she  said.  “I  can 
smell  the  sea.” 


II 


“Reservations  for  Mr.  Geer,”  Daniel  said.  The 
clerk  ran  over  a  pile  of  telegrams  and  nodded. 

“Daniel  Geer.  Double  room  and  bath.  Number 
71 1.”  He  passed  a  pen  to  Daniel  and  swung  the 
heavy  register  around. 

Amy  laid  her  hand  on  Daniel’s  arm.  “One  room, 
Daniel?”  To  the  clerk  she  said,  “Just  a  moment, 
please.  There’s  a  mistake.” 

Daniel  stood,  pen  poised,  puzzled  eyes  on  Amy. 
“What’s  the  matter?  Did  you  want  two  rooms?” 
The  clerk  waited,  bored,  his  eyes  on  the  telegram. 

“Of  course,”  Amy  said.  “Two  rooms,  please, 
bath  connecting.” 

“Sorry,  madam.  We’re  full  up.  Easter  week.” 

Amy  smiled  into  his  sallow  eyes.  “Is  Mr.  Shaw 
in  his  office?” 

“Yes,  madam.” 

She  turned  to  Daniel.  “I  know  the  proprietor. 
I’ve  stayed  here  with  my  family.  Go  to  the  tea 
room  and  order  something  while  I  see  about  the 
rooms.  Tea  and  cinnamon  toast,  Daniel.”  She 
started  away. 

He  stood  in  stiff  resentment,  watching  her  cross 
the  lobby.  Then  he  kicked  the  bag  at  his  feet  and 
muttered,  “ Look  after  our  things,  will  you?” 

121 


122 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Certainly,  sir,”  said  the  clerk. 

Daniel  strode  off,  frowning,  his  heels  ringing  on 
the  marble  floor.  I  should  have  made  the  arrange¬ 
ments.  I’m  the  man  of  this  party  and  ought  to 
have  gone  with  her.  That  clerk  must  think  I’m  a 
weak  sister  of  the  Sydney  breed.  Why  in  hell  does 
she  want  two  rooms  ?  That’s  carrying  her  modesty 
too  far.  Anyone  would  think  we  weren’t  married. 

I  must  tell  her  what  rooms  probably  cost  here. 
Lucky  I  have  only  a  week’s  leave  or  I’d  be  ruined. 
So  I’m  sent  to  order  tea  while  she  attends  to  the 
business.  I’ll  have  a  little  talk  with  that  young 
woman  when  she  comes  back.  She’ll  have  to  guess 
again. 

He  chose  a  table,  ordered  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
With  angry  eyes  he  watched  smart  women  coming 
in,  men  trailing  at  their  heels.  Like  dogs  on  a  leash, 
all  of  them.  Put  them  on  chairs  and  toss  them  a 
biscuit  to  keep  them  quiet.  They  make  me  sick.  I 
notice  when  it’s  time  to  pay  the  check  they  suddenly 
become  important  and  are  allowed  to  address  the 
waiter. 

Amy  came  through  the  door,  slimly  conspicuous 
by  her  swaying  walk,  at  her  side  a  gray-haired  man, 
tall  and  immaculate.  She  found  Daniel  with  her 
eyes  and  came  to  him,  smiling.  “This  is  he,”  she 
said.  “Daniel,  Mr.  Shaw.” 

Daniel  held  out  his  hand  and  Mr.  Shaw  shook  it 
at  length.  “I  wanted  to  see  the  fortunate  man,”  he 
said.  “No,  thanks,  I  won’t  sit  down  now.”  He 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


123 


pulled  out  a  chair  for  Amy.  “I  wish  you  both  a 
charming  week,”  he  said.  “And  if  you  want  any¬ 
thing  special,  let  the  chef  know.  He’s  good.  I 
found  him  in  Paris  last  year.  I  suppose  you’ll  be 
going  over  soon?” 

Amy  sat  down.  “I  don’t  know  how  soon.  Next 
summer,  perhaps.  We  haven’t  any  plans.”  She  drew 
out  her  cigarette  case  and  watched  Mr.  Shaw  making 
off  between  the  tables.  “Lucky  I  knew  him,”  she 
said.  “I’m  sure  we’ll  be  very  comfortable  here. 
Have  you  ordered?” 

“Yes,”  said  Daniel.  He  struck  a  match  and  held 
it  across  the  table.  It  quivered  in  his  hand  from 
the  angry  beat  of  blood  in  his  pulses.  He  blew 
it  out  and  laid  it  on  the  ash-tray.  Setting 
his  lips  against  each  other,  he  leaned  forward. 
“Amy,”  he  began  and  cleared  his  throat.  “Amy, 
I - ” 

“Ah,  our  tea,”  she  said.  “Good.”  She  began 
to  draw  off  her  gloves  as  the  waiter  placed  the  tray 
before  her.  “You’ll  soon  count  the  tea  hour  among 
your  pleasures,”  she  said.  “See,  I’ll  perform  all 
the  rites.  You  have  only  to  stir  it.”  She  smiled 
and  occupied  herself  with  their  cups. 

He  slumped  back  into  his  chair,  gazing  at  her 
hands.  On  the  fourth  finger  of  the  hand  that  held 
her  cigarette  gleamed  his  gift,  a  flawed  old  cabuchon 
emerald  that  she  had  found  in  a  dirty  little  shop 
on  Lexington  Avenue.  Beneath  the  stone  and 
almost  hidden  was  the  important  hymeneal  hoop. 


124 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  stared  at  the  narrow  band  of  platinum  that  had 
bound  them  since  morning. 

“Pass  the  toast,  please/'  she  said.  “I’m  hungry. 
Here’s  your  tea.” 

He  took  his  cup  and  held  out  the  plate  of  brown 
toast,  still  watching  the  movements  of  her  long 
fingers.  What  beautiful  hands!  She  would  have 
been  sent  to  the  guillotine  for  them  in  1 789.  I  never 
dreamed  mere  fingers  could  be  so  flavored  with 
beauty.  Mother’s  crooked  and  warped.  Ruth’s 
red.  Elliot’s  thin  and  blunt.  Mine  even  more  spatu- 
late,  practical  examples  of  the  only  tools  man  has 
been  sure  of  inheriting,  each  generation  passing  on 
the  cunning  caught  by  the  last  until  machinery 
stopped  the  process  of  evolution. 

He  drank  his  tea,  relaxed  by  its  heat,  proud  eyes 
noting  her  gestures,  significant  in  their  unfamiliar¬ 
ity,  important  to  his  exultation.  She  looks  composed 
for  the  first  time  today.  Not  the  moment  to  re¬ 
proach  her.  Let  it  go.  Time  now  for  joy  in  my 
bride.  Tonight  but  a  few  hours  away.  Dreams  will 
be  turned  into  flesh. 

Amy  crushed  her  cigarette  on  her  plate  and 
reached  for  her  gloves.  “Let’s  go  rolling,”  she  said. 
“And  be  sure,  Daniel,  you  choose  a  nice  chair.” 


Ill 


The  board  walk  creaked  and  vibrated  under  the 
moving  weights  that  burdened  its  wide  surfaces. 
Amy  thrust  her  chin  and  mouth  into  her  furs  and 
sat  huddled  against  Daniel’s  overcoat  as  the  black 
boy  swung  their  chair  into  line.  Without  speaking 
they  looked  out  over  sands  bared  by  the  tide  and 
toward  an  horizon  that  was  indiscernible  in  the  dusk 
and  rising  fog.  Wisps  of  thick  salt  vapor  blew 
across  their  faces  and  clung  to  their  skins.  Daniel 
blinked  into  the  wind  and  shivered.  Amy  turned 
to  him. 

“One  should  be  a  real  lover  of  the  sea  to  approach 
it  in  its  winter  moods,”  she  said.  “Perhaps  you 
would  have  preferred  Dr.  Edwards’  lodge  after 
all.” 

Daniel  shook  his  head.  “It  would  have  been 
stupid  for  you.  I’ve  never  hunted  anything  but  Jer¬ 
sey  mosquitoes.  You’ve  heard  of  them?  At  home 
we  always  began  talking  of  mosquitoes  in  spring, 
remembering  and  dreading  the  long  stifling  nights 
when  our  little  house  sang  with  them  and  every¬ 
one  lay  awake  for  hours  groaning  and  slapping.” 
He  looked  at  her  face,  softened  by  the  gray  light. 
“Your  eyes  have  lost  their  green  color  today. 


125 


126 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


They’re  as  gray  as  the  fog,”  he  said.  “Tell  me 
that  you  are  happy — a  little.” 

“I’m  always  quieted  by  the  sea,”  she  answered. 
“Perhaps  it’s  the  heaviness  of  the  air.  And  I  like  to 
watch  moving  water.” 

His  eyes,  disappointed,  left  her  face.  “I  like  it, 
too,”  he  said.  “I  think  of  the  millions  of  years  that 
the  ocean  was  our  mother  and  how  jealously  she 
guarded  us  until  we  grew  up  and  crawled  away. 
Even  in  this  wind  it  warms  me  to  remember  that  old 
bond.” 

“I  never  thought  of  that,”  said  Amy.  She  turned 
her  head  and  regarded  him  with  interest.  “Tell  me 
more  about  it.” 

He  caught  at  her  hand.  “I  want  to  talk 
about  you  and  me.  Our  marriage.  Let’s  go 
back  to  the  hotel,  Amy.  I  want  to  hold  you  and 
kiss  you.  I’ve  never  kissed  you  yet — not  a  real 
kiss.  You  don’t  know  how  much  I  love  you.” 

“Daniel!  The  boy  can  hear.”  She  drew  away 
and  stared  into  the  mist.  Then,  breathing  sharply, 
she  closed  her  eyes. 

“What’s  the  matter?  Does  something  hurt  you?” 
He  bent  forward  and  captured  her  hand  again. 
“Tell  me  your  thoughts,  Amy.” 

“I’m  tired,  I  suppose.  Nothing  else.  Nerves,  per¬ 
haps.  But  everything’s  all  right  now.” 

He  felt  her  weight  return  against  his  shoulder  and 
in  his  delight  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  pressed 
her  in  a  trembling  embrace.  She  twisted  about  and 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


127 

called  to  the  boy  to  stop.  “I’m  frozen.  I’d  like  to 
walk,  if  you  don’t  mind.” 

Moving  in  the  shelter  of  the  buildings,  he  took 
her  arm.  I  wonder  why  she  seems  afraid  of  me. 
Always  a  withdrawal.  I’ve  heard  of  women  like 
that.  Cold  and  aloof  until  they  get  used  to  a  man. 
I  mustn’t  frighten  her.  Give  her  time.  She’s  no 
common  wench  to  be  chucked  under  the  chin  and 
forced  between  dinner  and  the  closing  hour.  Like 
the  girl  that  night  in  the  Oxford  bar.  “Garn,  you 
must  be  off  your  chump.  Nah-ow !  Not  if  I  was  to 
’ave  my  ’ead  cut  off!”  But  she  did  all  the  same. 
Hope  Amy  never  asks  me  about  those  others.  I’d 
better  lie  if  she  does.  Women  think  each  adventure 
is  momentous. 

Amy  stopped  before  a  jeweler’s  window  and  ap¬ 
praised  the  rows  of  hard  bright  stones  and  gentle 
pearls  that  rested  in  cases  of  white  velvet.  “See, 
Daniel,  that  little  bracelet  there !  Isn’t  it  charming  ?” 

He  stood,  shoulder  against  her  brown  fur,  and 
hand  on  her  arm.  “Yes.  Very  pretty.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  eagerness.  “I  should  like 
that,  I  think.  Let’s  go  in  and  look  at  it.” 

He  studied  the  circle  of  smallish  pearls,  closed 
and  ornamented  by  a  clasp  of  chip  emeralds.  Costs 
at  least  two  or  three  hundred.  I  can’t  afford  that 
on  top  of  everything  else.  I’ll  be  bankrupt  in  no 
time.  “I  don’t  think  we’d  better,  dear.” 

“Why,  Daniel,  don’t  you  like  it?  Really,  it’s 
very  good  taste.  And  such  a  simple  little  thing.” 


128 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“I  suppose  it  is.  But  this  shop  looks  expensive.,, 

“Oh,  no,  it  isn’t !  Anyway,  we  can  ask  the  price.” 
She  pulled  at  his  arm  but  he  resisted,  closing  obstin¬ 
ate  lips. 

“It  can’t  be  done.  I’m  not  made  of  money,  Amy.” 
His  voice  was  a  defense  of  property,  acerb  and  in¬ 
dignant. 

She  stepped  back  and  looked  at  him  blankly.  He 
saw  her  flexible  mouth  curling  into  lines  of  disgust. 
Swinging  in  an  abrupt  turn  she  walked  away,  leav¬ 
ing  him  to  gape  after  her,  unable  in  his  astonishment 
to  follow  her  with  words  of  explanation  and  en¬ 
treaty. 

Presently  he  turned  again  to  the  window,  looking 
at  the  bracelet  in  the  velvet  bed.  Why  did  I  say 
“made  of  money?”  I  spoke  as  I  do  to  father’s  im¬ 
portunities.  Better  not  follow  her  right  away. 
Meet  her  at  the  hotel  in  a  few  minutes.  I  should 
have  given  a  more  romantic  refusal.  Father’s  fault. 
Always  hectoring  me  for  money  till  I  snarled  at  the 
word.  Everybody  after  my  money.  Father,  mother, 
Ruth,  Andrew,  the  boys  at  the  office.  Always  a  fight 
to  get  it  back.  Hope  Amy’s  not  crying.  Still  tears 
may  teach  her  to  check  extravagant  tastes.  She 
never  gave  a  thought  to  the  price  of  two  rooms  and 
bath.  I  hope  Rufus  hasn’t  given  her  grandiose  ideas 
of  what  I’m  getting. 

He  walked  toward  the  hotel,  taking  short,  deliber¬ 
ate  steps.  I  can’t  go  on  spending  money  like  water. 
My  bank  account  won’t  stand  it.  First  her  rings 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


129 


and  the  check,  then  my  clothes  and  this  trip.  I  may 
not  be  blue-blooded  but  the  purse  strings  are  in  my 
hands.  She’ll  have  to  keep  a  ledger  of  expenses  for 
the  apartment.  Good  training  for  her.  I  won’t 
speak  of  it  till  we  get  back  to  New  York.  Now  to 
go  in  and  make  peace.  Then  we’ll  change  for  din¬ 
ner.  She’ll  be  in  her  room  by  now.  Sulky,  per¬ 
haps,  but  remembering  that  after  all  she  is  married 
to  me.  It  will  be  charming  to  have  her  dress  only 
one  room  away.  Tomorrow  I  shall  dare  to  go  in 
whenever  I  like.  I  shall  be  her  husband  and  admit¬ 
ted  to  all  intimacies.  The  ceremony  of  the  bath,  the 
fall  of  red  hair  about  her  soft  shoulders.  .  .  .  Won¬ 
der  who  conceived  the  fallacious  idea  about  anticipa¬ 
tion.  Someone  with  a  taste  for  the  whips  of  un¬ 
certainty.  Anticipation  disorders  all  the  processes. 
The  clear  concentration  that  should  be  given  to  work 
is  dissipated  in  hot  flashes,  chills  and  fevers,  noc¬ 
turnal  tossings.  In  fact,  all  the  symptoms  of  malaria 
are  present. 

Turning  off  the  board  walk  he  struck  across  a 
small  dull  square  and  stared  up  at  the  unevenly 
placed  patches  of  light  that  were  the  windows  of  the 
hotel.  Behind  the  broad  windows  men  and  women 
seek  nomadic  shelter.  Behind  the  narrow  windows 
are  the  comfortable  bathrooms  of  civilization.  The 
world  scrubs  very  clean  these  days — this  new  world, 
at  least,  whose  art  lies  in  its  superb  plumbing.  Be¬ 
hind  which  window  is  she  waiting  for  me  ?  What  is 
her  mood?  I’ll  take  her  in  my  arms,  asking  forgive- 


130  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

ness,  an  offending  and  contrite  bridegroom.  We 
will  dine  in  a  corner  after  cocktails  from  my  flask. 
And  then  we’ll  lock  a  legal  door  against  the  world. 

He  ran  up  the  steps  and  hurried  to  the  desk.  The 
clerk,  smiling  now,  passed  out  a  key.  “You  have 
335  and  337,  Mr.  Geer.” 

“Thank  you.  Is — is  my  wife — has  Mrs.  Geer 
come  in?” 

“Yes.  About  ten  minutes  ago,  I  think,  sir.” 

Daniel  squeezed  the  key  into  his  palm.  It  im¬ 
pressed  the  shape  of  its  narrow  end  into  the  flesh 
below  his  thumb.  He  went  into  the  elevator,  cherish¬ 
ing  this  physical  pain  as  if  it  were  an  entry  fee  into 
Amy’s  gracious  relenting.  The  corridor  of  his  floor 
showed  two  rows  of  dark  wood  doors  and,  walking 
along  on  a  pattern  of  morning  glories  and  roses,  he 
peered  at  the  numbers.  This  one  313.  And  330 
opposite.  Mine  must  be  around  the  comer. 

He  opened  his  fingers  and  stared  at  his  key.  With 
such  pieces  of  metal  history  has  been  made,  giving 
paradise  to  lovers,  shutting  in  the  socially  unfit,  re¬ 
assuring  capital,  guarding  royal  intrigues  in  archives, 
bestowing  civic  honors,  comforting  misers,  sym¬ 
bolizing  learning,  inspiring  God  knows  how  many 
songs  about  hearts  under  a  lock. 

Turning  the  corner,  he  faced  his  room.  He  un¬ 
locked  the  door  and  went  in.  The  lights  were  on, 
his  bags  lay  between  the  windows  and  the  door  was 
open.  He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  staring 
through  the  bright  whiteness  of  tiles.  The  opposite 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


131 

door  was  closed.  He  turned  away  and  took  off  his 
hat  and  overcoat,  dropping  them  on  the  divan.  Be¬ 
fore  the  mirror  of  the  dressing  table  he  smoothed 
down  his  hair  and  pushed  up  the  knot  of  his  green 
silk  tie.  Holding  his  breath,  he  crossed  the  bath¬ 
room  and  knocked. 

“Amy,  are  you  there  ?”  Her  pause  held  him  like 
a  hand.  He  waited  for  words  that  should  come 
from  beyond  the  wood. 

“I’m  dressing.  I’ll  be  ready  in  a  little  while,”  she 
said. 

“Oh.”  He  spoke  the  word  as  if  it  were  giving  her 
some  important  information  about  himself.  “Oh,” 
he  repeated.  “Oh,  all  right.”  He  gazed  down  at 
the  knob,  studying  its  baldness. 

“Daniel.” 

“Yes,  dear.” 

“Telephone  down  and  get  seats  for  that  new 
Belasco  play.” 

“Play?”  he  said.  “When?  Tonight?” 

“Yes.  It  might  be  amusing.” 

He  stroked  the  cold  shiny  knob  with  his  fore¬ 
finger,  noting  the  steamy  line  that  made  a  wake  just 
beyond  his  nail.  “All  right,”  he  said  again  and,  turn¬ 
ing,  went  to  the  telephone  by  his  bed. 


IV 


They  walked  back  to  the  hotel  that  night  through 
a  thick  mist,  broken  about  them  by  colorless  figures, 
murmuring  shades  of  the  chattering,  bright  crowd 
of  the  theatre.  Daniel,  erect  and  grave,  followed 
Amy  to  the  desk,  eyes  fixed  on  the  knot  of  red  hair 
pressed  against  her  neck  by  the  fur  collar  of  her 
cape.  He  watched  her  nod  to  the  clerk  and  saw  the 
long  white  fingers  close  on  her  key.  He  took  his 
own  and  they  went  to  the  elevator  to  pass  upward 
in  silence  from  the  buzzing  confusion  of  the  lobby. 

“I’m  hungry,”  Amy  said,  unlocking  her  door. 
‘‘Order  some  sandwiches,  Daniel.  In  your  room. 
I’ll  come  in  as  soon  as  I  get  out  of  this  dress.  Some 
of  the  beads  are  coming  loose.” 

He  let  himself  into  his  room,  smiling.  He  sent 
for  a  waiter,  hung  up  his  coat  and  began  to  whistle 
through  his  teeth.  He  took  a  dressing  gown  and 
pyjamas  from  his  bag  and  held  them  up  under  the 
light.  My  first  silk  garments.  Women  have  a  pen¬ 
chant  for  silk.  Extravagant  for  anything  except  a 
honeymoon.  Mother  would  think  I’d  gone  crazy. 
She  never  heard  of  masculine  luxuries.  Silk  to  her 
is  for  a  woman’s  Sunday  dress.  She  turned  hers 
over  every  two  years.  Might  as  well  take  off  my 


132 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


133 


coat  and  put  on  this  kimono  thing.  Hope  it  pleases 
her.  Apparently  she’s  passed  over  this  afternoon. 
Women  always  forgive  with  both  hands.  Onel 

reason  men  have  treated  them  so  badly.  A 

Tieing  the  narrow  belt  around  his  waist,  he  went 
to  the  mirror.  I’d  better  take  a  drink.  I  look  pale 
and  nervous — altogether  in  the  tradition.  This 
color  is  becoming.  Funny  what  a  difference  it  makes 
who  wields  the  sartorial  scissors.  Everything  in  the 
cut.  Sartor  Resartus.  The  Sage  of  Chelsea  could 
write  about  it  but  he  never  managed  to  look  smart. 
My  new  suit  pleased  her  eyes,  though  accustomed  to 
Sydney’s  magnificences.  But  I’ll  wear  out  the  old 
things  at  the  office.  There’s  the  waiter. 

He  ordered  sandwiches  and  ginger  ale,  then 
brought  out  a  bottle  of  whiskey  from  his  large  bag. 
As  he  was  drawing  the  cork,  Amy  knocked  and 
opened  the  door. 

“May  I?” 

She  came  through  the  bathroom,  brilliant  in  a 
Chinese  suit  of  grass  green,  like  a  rather  tall,  in¬ 
capacious  bird  from  a  tropical  forest.  She  nodded 
at  the  bottle  in  Daniel’s  hands.  “I  was  hoping  you 
hadn’t  forgotten  that,”  she  said.  “We’ll  need  some 
ice,  I  think.  Did  you  order  ice,  Daniel?”  She 
walked  about  his  room  with  nervous  steps,  twisting 
her  scarab  ring  about  her  finger,  an  unlighted  ciga¬ 
rette  between  her  lips.  “I’m  looking  for — oh,  here 
they  are.”  She  caught  up  a  box  of  matches  from 
his  dressing  table  and  lit  her  cigarette.  Inhaling 


134 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


with  relief,  she  blew  out  the  match  and  looked  over 
at  Daniel.  “What  are  you  staring  at?”  she  asked. 

Daniel  blinked  at  her.  “It’s  the — it’s  those,”  he 
said.  “I  never  saw  a  woman  in  trousers  before.  I 
suppose  you’ll  think  me  provincial.  And  I  daresay 
I  am.  I  realize  it  when  I  am  with  you.  You’re  so 
different  from  anyone  I’ve  ever  known.”  He  set 
the  bottle  down  on  the  table  and  went  to  her.  “How 
did  you  ever  happen  to  care  for  me,  Amy?  Tell 
me!”  He  put  his  arms  around  her  shoulders. 
“You  never  say  anything  about  it.  Don’t  you  know 
it’s  what  I  most  want  to  hear  ?  In  the  worst  of  my 
humiliation  when  you  said  you  wouldn’t  marry  me, 
I  understood  it.  I  knew  a  person  like  you  couldn’t 
care  for  me.  But  when  you  changed  your  mind 
afterward  I  kept  asking  myself.  Why?  What  does 
she  see  in  me?”  He  waited,  gazing  at  her  cheek 
close  to  his  eyes.  “Why  do  you  love  me,  Amy?” 

She  released  her  shoulders  and  lifted  her  cigarette. 
“Really,  Daniel,  there  are  lots  of  women  who  would 
be  happy  to  change  places  with  me,”  she  said.  “I 
didn’t  know  a  man  could  be  so  modest.”  She  walked 
to  an  arm  chair  and  sank  into  it.  “Give  me  a  drink, 
please.  I’m  exhausted.” 

He  brought  a  glass  from  the  bathroom.  “Don’t 
you  want  to  wait  for  the  ginger  ale?” 

She  shook  her  head  and  drank  down  the  whiskey, 
sighing  as  she  gave  him  the  glass.  “Thank  you.” 
She  rested  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  closed  her 
eyes. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


135 


He  stood  before  her,  holding  the  glass  and  look¬ 
ing  down  at  her  loosened  red  hair  and  the  white 
stretch  of  neck  rising  from  emerald  silk.  She  lay 
in  the  chair  as  still  as  if  she  were  asleep,  but  the 
smoke  that  floated  up  from  her  left  hand  gave  a 
sense  of  life  and  motion.  His  eyes  went  to  the  hand 
with  the  cigarette,  seeing  it  was  bare  now  of  his 
rings. 

When  the  waiter  knocked,  Daniel  went  to  the  door 
and  took  the  tray  from  him.  He  brought  it  to  the 
table  and  went  back  to  sign  the  check.  As  he  closed 
the  door  Amy  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled.  She 
stretched  her  arms  and  came  to  the  table 

“Waiters  aren’t  people,  Daniel.  Don’t  be  so  old- 
fashioned.  You  act  just  like  mamma.” 

He  blushed  and  jerked  the  tin  cap  from  the  ginger 
ale  bottle.  “I  didn’t  want  that  fellow  to  see — after 
all,  they’re  human  beings — ” 

She  crossed  her  long  green  legs  and  took  up  a 
sandwich.  “I’m  as  covered  as  he  is,”  she  said. 
“That  mine  are  more  attractive  is  only  a  chance  of 
nature.” 

“We  won’t  go  into  that  now,”  said  Daniel.  He 
watched  her  pointed  white  teeth  bite  through  the 
white  bread.  “It’s  a  large  discussion  to  treat 
casually.  And  you’re  too  tired  tonight  to  do  your 
side  justice.” 

Her  eyes  drooped.  “Yes.  It’s  been  a  difficult  day. 
And  I  was  bored  at  the  theatre.  I  kept  thinking  of 
other  things - ” 


136  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

“Of  what  I  said  this  afternoon?  Oh,  Amy,  please 
forgive  me.”  He  leaned  over  the  table  and  caught 
at  her  hand.  “If  you  knew  the  circumstances  of 
my  younger  years — the  atmosphere  I  lived  in  at 
home - ” 

“I  can  guess,”  she  said.  “And  there  are  things 
for  both  of  us  to  forgive,  I - ” 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Daniel  jumped 
and  it  was  Amy  who  called,  “Come  in,”  adding, 
“I’ll  put  my  legs  under  the  table  if  you  like,  Daniel.” 

A  page  boy  came  in,  holding  out  a  tray.  On  it 
lay  a  yellow  envelope. 

“For  me?”  said  Daniel,  putting  out  his  hand. 

“No,  sir.  For  the  lady.” 

“Oh,”  said  Daniel.  “For  you,  Amy.”  He  took 
it  from  the  tray  and  gave  it  to  her.  “Mrs.  Da!niel 
Geer,”  he  said  with  excitement.  The  boy  turned 
and  walked  away.  “Mrs.  Daniel  Geer,”  he  repeated. 
“It  sounds  unreal,  doesn’t  it?  How  do  you  feel 
when  you  see  that?  Do  you  get  a  sense  of  identity 
with  me  or — ”  He  stopped  and  waited  for  her  to 
read  the  message. 

Her  eyes  rested  briefly  on  the  yellow  paper.  She 
crumpled  it  into  her  palm  and  laid  it  on  the  tray. 
“What  did  you  say,  Daniel?” 

He  watched  her  face,  noting  a  drawn  look  about 
the  lips.  The  mauve  circles  topping  her  cheekbones 
had  changed  to  gray.  Her  eyes  were  again  green 
and  secret,  looking  beyond  him.  “You  had  no  bad 
news,  I  hope?”  he  said. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


137 

She  moved  her  eyes  into  a  sharp  focus  upon  his 
face.  “Bad  news?” 

He  watched  her  eyebrows  move  up  defensively. 
“I  mean  your  telegram,”  he  said. 

“Oh,  no.”  She  took  up  her  sandwich.  “I  think 
I’d  like  another  drink,  please.  With  ginger  ale  this 
time.” 

He  got  up  at  once  and  fetched  the  whiskey  bottle. 
She  acts  as  if  it  were  an  intrusion  for  me  to  ask. 
Bad  manners  again,  I  suppose.  Damn  it,  I  can’t  get 
through  an  hour  without  making  myself  ridiculous. 
Mother  and  father  always  opened  each  other’s  tele¬ 
grams  and  letters — when  they  had  any.  Evidently 
isn’t  done  in  her  set.  Probably  from  her  mother 
who  had  just  heard  the  news.  Why  couldn’t  she 
say  so?  Perhaps  the  old  lady  is  angry  and  Amy 
doesn’t  want  to  upset  me.  Oh,  well,  she’ll  come 
around  in  time  with  the  prescriptive  blessing. 

After  giving  Amy  her  highball,  he  made  one  for 
himself  and  was  making  another  when  the  waiter 
came.  He  signed  the  check  and  lifted  their  glasses 
from  the  tray.  The  bottom  of  Amy’s  glass  grazed 
the  ball  of  paper.  Daniel’s  eyes  followed  the  yellow 
patch  as  the  tray  rose  to  the  waiter’s  shoulder.  He 
watched  it  across  the  room  and  through  the  door. 

Amy  set  down  her  empty  glass  and  got  up.  Her 
face  was  white  and  her  lips  lost  their  red  freshness. 
“I’m  very  tired,”  she  said.  “I  think  I’ll  go  to  bed 
now.”  She  walked  into  the  bathroom  and  closed  the 
door. 


138  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

He  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  I  wonder  if 
she’ll  mind  my  hearing  the  sound  of  water  in  there. 
Brushing  teeth  and  washing  off  soap  are  unromantic 
noises.  Should  I  have  gone  downstairs?  There 
might  be  other  bashful  bridegrooms  to  keep  me  com¬ 
pany,  sitting  in  an  empty  lobby  for  the  sake  of 
romance.  I’d  better  unpack  and  undress.  Activity 
will  be  good  for  my  nerves. 

Taking  a  suit  from  his  bag,  he  hung  it  in  the 
closet  by  his  brown  one  and  found  a  hanger  for  his 
evening  coat.  He  laid  out  his  toilet  articles  on  the 
dresser  and  filled  the  dresser  drawers  with  shirts, 
socks,  neckties  and  underwear.  Then  he  began  to 
undress.  Water  stopped  in  there.  That’s  her  door 
closing.  My  ablutional  turn.  Funny  how  the  vibra¬ 
tion  of  a  brain  cell  can  affect  the  heart.  Love,  fear, 
anger,  desire  and  the  pump  begins  to  rock  at  full 
speed.  Choking  me.  What  if  I  don’t  please  her? 
I  must  attack,  of  course.  Boldness  wins.  They  de¬ 
spise  you  otherwise.  The  world  loves  a  lover  but 
laughs  at  a  bridegroom.  And  a  husband  is  a  per¬ 
petual  joke.  Synonym  for  cuckold  in  France.  II 
est  cocu.  Wouldn’t  marry  a  Latin  for  the  best  prize 
in  the  lottery.  Sure  to  deceive  you  behind  any  door 
at  the  first  invitation.  Better  shave.  Her  skin  is  as 
thin  as  a  veil. 

After  he  had  shaved  and  put  on  his  pyjamas  and 
new  leather  slippers,  he  brushed  his  hair  before  the 
mirror,  smoothing  it  down  with  many  meticulous 
motions.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette.  My  God,  I’m 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


139 


trembling  like  a  neophtye.  Where  is  the  swooning 
delight  of  today?  Ousted  by  my  terror.  She  may 
be  asleep.  Should  I  wake  her?  Perhaps  there’s 
some  unwritten  law  of  which  I  am  ignorant.  Still 
manners  can’t  be  so  different  in  cases  like  this.  The 
same  motions  must  be  current  in  all  circles.  Glad 
we’re  not  back  in  the  16th  century.  Wouldn’t  like 
her  mother  bursting  in  with  a  cup  of  bouillon  in  her 
hand  and  admonitions  to  me  on  her  lips. 

He  switched  off  the  light  and  went  into  the  bath¬ 
room  to  stand  before  her  door.  He  lifted  his  hand 
and  rapped  three  times.  There  was  no  answer.  He 
turned  the  knob  and  pushed  open  the  door.  The 
room  was  dark  and  the  light  from  the  bathroom 
made  a  path  to  the  bed.  Leaving  the  door  ajar,  he 
followed  the  narrow  line  of  light. 

Amy  lay  on  her  side.  In  the  dimness  he  saw  her 
face,  the  eyes  open  upon  his  approach. 

“Are  you  asleep?”  His  voice  was  tight  in  his 
throat,  deranged  from  the  pounding  of  his  blood. 
He  coughed  and  stopped  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  stand¬ 
ing  awkwardly,  hands  stiff  at  his  sides. 

“No,  Daniel.” 

He  sat  down,  trembling,  and  set  his  teeth  together. 
His  hand  descended,  and  startled,  he  drew  it  back 
from  the  coverlet  to  his  knee.  She’s  as  rigid  as  a 
mummy  in  its  wrappings.  Suffering  even  as  I  am. 
Why  should  we  feel  shame?  If  she’d  only  hold  out 
her  hand  as  she  did  that  day  in  her  apartment  when 
I  was  leaving!  But  she  doesn’t  move.  No  gesture 


140 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


of  love.  The  desire  by  which  I  have  lived  for  weeks 
has  no  response  in  her. 

Her  hand  was  near  his  on  the  silk  quilt.  He  took 
it,  murmuring,  “Amy.”  It  was  without  life  or 
heat.  He  stared  down  at  the  lines  of  her  arm  and 
breast  lighted  from  the  open  door.  Like  moulded 
snow.  My  white  virgin.  My  love  will  melt  this 
mood.  The  craters  of  her  eyes  look  burned  out. 
She  seems  in  pain.  Was  there  anything  in  that 
damned  telegram?  Why  didn’t  she  show  it  to  me? 
So  natural  to  say,  “Look,  congratulations  from  So- 
and-So.”  Or,  “See,  mother  is  really  angry.”  Per¬ 
haps  she’s  chilled  by  the  fear  all  women  feel.  Or 
she  may  want  from  me  only  companionship  in 
marriage,  affectionate  love.  To  some  women  a 
closer  relation  is  unpleasant.  She  may  be  fearing  in 
me  a  modern  Agathocles  Triorchis  or  wishing  that 
I  had  been  served  like  Abelard. 

As  he  sat  staring  into  the  bleak  face,  he  noted 
the  false  black  shadows  and  how  heavily  the  head 
rested  on  the  pillow  of  red  hair.  Tears  smarted  in 
his  eyes  and  he  lifted  his  hand  from  hers.  “You’re 
tired.  I’ll  go  to  bed  in  there,”  he  said. 

Her  shadowed  eyes  did  not  move.  “Goodnight,” 
she  whispered. 

“Goodnight,  Amy.”  He  went  toward  the  door,  his 
ears  keen  for  a  rustle  that  would  tell  of  a  hand 
stretched  out  in  recall.  He  stopped.  Silence. 
“Goodnight,”  he  said  again. 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  into  his  room. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  141 

Standing  under  a  cluster  of  lights,  he  looked  down 
at  his  shining  breast.  My  first  silk  pyjamas — for 
my  bridal  night.  He  gave  a  short  laugh,  a  strident, 
harsh  explosion  that  issued  involuntarily  to  surprise 
him.  Then  he  snapped  off  the  lights. 


V 


He  left  the  hotel  at  nine  o’clock  the  next  morning. 
Twenty  minutes  later  he  returned.  At  the  desk  he 
was  given  three  telegrams.  Two  were  for  Amy. 
He  put  them  in  his  pocket  and  went  to  the  elevator, 
reading  Trainer’s  twelve  word  report.  Upstairs  he 
opened  his  door  eagerly,  listening  for  a  running  tub. 
The  door  to  the  bathroom  was  closed  as  he  had 
left  it.  He  threw  down  his  hat  and  put  his  ear 
to  the  wood.  Then  he  took  off  his  overcoat, 
brushed  his  hair  and  went  into  the  bathroom.  One 
hand  in  his  pocket,  he  knocked  at  her  door — two 
dull  taps.  Her  voice,  muffled  and  lethargic,  an¬ 
swered  him. 

“May  I  come  in?” 

“Yes.  But  I’m  not  up  yet.” 

He  went  in  to  find  her  lying  in  a  ball,  luxuriously, 
with  sunlight  falling  on  her  hair,  a  long  red  banner 
across  the  pillow.  She  looked  up  at  him,  moving 
thin  white  eyelids.  “Dressed  so  early?” 

“I’ve  .been  out  for  a  walk,”  he  said  and  came  to 
the  side  of  the  bed.  He  drew  his  closed  hand  from 
his  pocket.  “I’ve  brought  you  something,  Amy. 
Sit  up.” 

He  placed  the  pillows  behind  her  and  gave  her  his 


142 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


143 


hand  to  open.  She  pulled  herself  up  slowly,  ex¬ 
amining  his  face  with  doubtful  green  eyes  before 
she  took  the  package  from  his  fingers.  He  watched 
her  unfold  the  paper  with  somnolent  hands  and  lift 
the  cover  of  the  box.  In  a  circle  cut  into  white 
velvet  lay  a  bracelet  of  smallish  pearls  closed  by  a 
clasp  of  chip  emeralds. 

“Oh,”  she  said,  astonished,  still  torpid  from  sleep. 
“Oh,  it’s  the  one  that — ” 

“Yes,”  said  Daniel,  sitting  down  on  the  bed. 

She  picked  it  up  by  the  clasp  and  let  it  swing 
between  their  faces.  “Sweet,  isn’t  it?” 

“Here,  let  me  put  it  on,”  he  said.  His  voice  was 
hoarse  and  flaccid.  She  held  out  her  arm  and  looked 
on  with  an  indolent,  sluggish  smile  while  he  fumbled 
the  clasp  with  shaking  fingers.  “It’s  sweet,”  she 
repeated. 

Her  face  against  the  morning  light  was  un¬ 
troubled  and  smooth.  Faint  opalescent  shadings 
tinted  the  skin  about  the  eyes — pastel  shadows,  thin 
unsubstantialities  of  color  that  touched  the  continent 
line  of  the  eyebrows  above  and  curved  below  to  rest 
on  the  cheekbones.  In  vivid,  harmonious  contrast 
burned  her  mouth,  narrow  and  blood-red,  curling 
in  and  up  at  the  corners. 

“There,”  he  whispered.  He  leaned  compact 
shoulders  over  her  slenderness.  She  smiled  and 
patted  his  hand. 

“Thank  you,”  she  said.  “Now  take  it  off.  I’ll 
put  it  on  again  after  my  bath.”  She  sat  up  and 


144 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


crossed  her  arms.  “Please  close  the  windows.  Pm 
cold.  Anything  in  the  papers  today?” 

He  shook  his  head.  “Oh.  Two  telegrams  for 
you.  I  forgot.” 

“Telegrams?”  Her  face  stiffened  and  her  eyes 
flew  awake.  She  tore  open  the  envelopes.  Daniel 
went  to  close  the  windows  and  when  he  turned 
around  she  was  smiling.  “Mamma  sends  her  love 
and  Elizabeth  Corning  tells  me  our  cat  has  run 
away.”  She  put  the  telegrams  on  the  night  table. 
“Well,  Salome  always  was  a  restless  spirit.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window  all  day.  Order  breakfast, 
please,  Daniel,  while  I  take  my  bath.” 

He  stirred  but  did  not  get  up.  His  eyes  ran  over 
her  body  outlined  under  the  bright  silk  quilt.  “You 
seem  more  interested  in  the  cat’s  defection  than  in 
your  mother’s  message,”  he  said. 

She  twisted  her  hair  into  a  rope  and  wound  it 
about  her  head.  While  she  was  fastening  it  into 
place  with  hairpins  from  the  night  table,  his  eyes 
clung  to  the  smooth  hollows  of  her  armpits  with 
their  blue  tracery  of  young  veins.  “It’s  because  I 
know  mamma,”  she  said.  “That  telegram  is  only 
a  truce.  She’s  reserving  decision.  Oh,  well — ” 
She  looked  at  him  and  seeing  that  he  bent  nearer 
with  closing  eyes,  she  pushed  him  away.  “No.  I 
haven’t  had  my  bath.” 

He  received  her  implication  with  a  quiver  in  all 
his  muscles  and  a  quick  flush.  “Bath?  May  I  draw 
the  water  for  you?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


145 


“If  you  like.  And  as  hot  as  possible.” 

He  jumped  up  and  hurried  to  the  bathroom, 
passing  chairs  strewn  with  flesh-colored  chiffon  gar¬ 
ments  and  transparent  stockings.  The  water  sent 
steam  up  to  his  face  when  he  turned  the  tap  and  he 
let  a  trickle  of  cold  water  flow  beside  the  hot, 
regulating  the  mixture  with  his  hand  until  he  judged 
the  temperature  pleasing  to  her.  From  the  shelf 
he  took  a  jar  of  bath  salts  and  filled  his  wet  palm 
with  perfumed  grains,  letting  them  drop  to  the 
bottom  of  the  tub  like  small  pebbles.  He  found  her 
soap  in  a  silver  box  and  placed  it  in  the  rack.  I’ve 
heard  that  voluptuaries  are  against  soap.  They 
say  it  destroys  the  natural  scent.  So  does  perfume 
from  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Makes  women  smell  like 
a  row  of  bottles.  What  was  it  that  Frenchman  said 
about  red-haired  women?  Either  more  pervading 
or  less.  Amy  meant  I  could  kiss  her  after  her  bath. 
This  water  a  covenant  between  us.  Presently  it 
will  caress  her  as  she  lies,  white  and  wet,  long 
hands  occupied  with  their  miscellaneous  minutiae 
and  I,  closed  out  and  trembling,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door. 

He  kicked  aside  the  bath  mat  he  had  used  an  hour 
before  and  spread  a  towel  as  large  as  a  rug  for  her 
feet.  “All  ready,  dear.  I’ll  order  breakfast  while 
you — ” 

“Thanks.”  She  smiled  at  him  as  he  stood  in  the 
door  and  threw  off  the  quilt  with  a  sudden  movement 
of  her  arm.  As  he  did  not  turn  to  go,  she  hesitated 


146  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

and  drew  up  the  sheet  to  her  neck.  “Coffee  and 
toast  will  be  all  I  want,  Daniel.” 

“Well — that  won’t  take  long.”  He  went  into  his 
room  and  telephoned  the  order.  The  morning  news¬ 
papers  were  lying  on  the  table  and  he  unfolded  them, 
passing  over  the  headlines  with  a  professional 
glance,  then  spreading  open  the  pages.  Presently  he 
brushed  them  aside  and  with  ears  alert  for  sounds 
from  the  bathroom,  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
stood  observing  the  yellow  beach,  lying  supine  in 
the  sunshine.  Courageous  spring  bathers.  Little 
male  and  female  toys,  jumping  to  strings  that  were 
pulled  a  million  ages  past,  ignorant  of  their  source 
and  destiny — collected,  changing  cells  actuated  by 
a  ribbon  of  food  and  filth  that  unwinds  through  their 
middles  from  birth  to  death,  regenerating  and  poi¬ 
soning.  Shivering  there,  they  calculate  the  height 
of  breakers  while  I  stand  here  rocked  by  subjective 
waves  of  impacted  passion,  swamped  by  inhibitions. 

He  began  to  pace  across  the  room — to  the  win¬ 
dows,  to  the  door  and  back  into  the  sunlight.  He 
held  his  pale  lips  apart,  breathing  through  them, 
and  forced  his  forehead  into  a  tight  fluting.  As 
he  walked  he  clenched  his  hands  and  moved  his 
arms  up  and  down  from  the  elbow  joints.  Then 
with  the  final  abrupt  gesture  of  a  man  who  has  won 
an  argument  and  now  turns  to  other  matters,  he 
unbuttoned  his  coat  and  vest,  pulled  them  off  and 
flung  them  across  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He  sat 
down,  frowning  at  his  boots  as  he  unlaced  them. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


147 


As  he  was  kicking  them  off,  the  waiter  knocked  and 
Daniel  ran  to  the  divan  for  the  brown  robe.  He 
covered  his  underwear  and  opened  the  door. 

“Put  it  over  there — your  tray.  No,  don’t  serve. 
Give  me  the  check.”  He  signed  it,  a  wavering  line 
that  ran  off  the  card,  and  stood  rigidly  until  the  man 
had  left  the  room.  When  the  door  closed  he  sprang 
at  it  and  snapped  the  key  into  the  lock.  From  that 
spasmodic  act,  he  turned  and  looked  fixedly  at  the 
bathroom  door,  breathing  in  jerks  through  nostrils 
that  twitched  and  spread.  Then,  chin  thrust  out,  he 
began  his  approach,  inclining  forward,  scarcely 
touching  his  heels  to  the  carpet.  He  stopped  at  the 
door,  an  impendent  hand  grasping  the  knob.  God, 
I’m  like  a  bull  ape.  Ought  to  drum  shaggy  chest 
to  announce  attack.  Intelligence  submerged.  Out 
of  control.  Go  in.  No.  Ask  her  first.  Why 
ask?  Such  shrinking  marks  a  weakling.  Fin  de 
siecle  type.  Answer  nature’s  will.  Go  on  and 
answer.  It’s  expected — orthodox — paynim.  Why 
wait  for  pretty  permission?  Hurry.  Blood  beating 
me  deaf  and  blind. 

He  strengthened  his  stance  and  threw  back  his 
head.  His  fingers  tightened  on  the  knob  like  hooks. 
He  jerked  the  door  open  and  went  in.  Amy  was 
standing  on  the  towel  he  had  laid  before  the  tub. 
Her  back,  turned  toward  the  door,  shone  with  the 
glaze  of  water,  dripping  and  running  down  the  pink 
planes  of  her  body.  In  the  lucernal  glare  intensified 
by  mirrors,  her  flesh  had  a  transparent  quality,  as  if 


148  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


it  had  been  laid  on  with  a  small  fine  brush  in  thin 
luminous  paint  of  pink  and  mauve. 

She  had  not  moved  since  he  had  burst  into  the 
room,  but  stood  sending  a  defensive  and  angry  look 
over  her  shoulder.  Now  she  turned  with  a  cry 
and  caught  up  a  towel.  Before  she  could  finish  the 
gesture  of  enwrapping,  he  sprang  upon  her  to 
snatch  the  towel  from  her  hands.  As  it  fell  to  the 
floor,  he  seized  her  by  the  wrist  and  swung  her 
about  to  face  him,  avoiding  her  outraged  eyes.  The 
force  of  his  abrupt  movement  shook  loose  two  long 
bronze  hairpins.  They  tinkled  on  the  tiling  and  a 
soft  red  curtain  descended  and  covered  her. 

“Ah!”  He  spoke  accusingly  as  if  the  dropping 
of  her  hair  were  the  result  of  a  plan  to  defeat  him. 
She  bent  forward  in  an  effort  at  further  conceal¬ 
ment,  letting  him  twist  her  wrists  to  a  raw  red.  At 
this  refusal,  he  took  a  half  step  toward  her,  placed 
his  hands  under  her  arms  and  lifted  her  up  against 
him.  As  he  carried  her  to  the  door,  she  pushed  at 
him  and  beat  his  face  with  her  hands,  her  body 
strained  back  in  a  stiff  arc  of  resistance. 

He  began  to  laugh  in  his  throat  as  he  walked, 
his  teeth  set  together  and  his  face  pressed  into  the 
cool  slippery  wetness  of  her  neck.  The  door  to  her 
room  was  open  and  he  went  through  it  and  into  the 
sunlight.  A  little  stream  of  water  followed  at  his 
heels,  trickling  a  crooked  pattern  on  the  carpet  as  he 
stumbled  his  way  forward. 

Beside  her  bed  he  released  her  and  she  dropped 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


149 


into  the  tumbled  sheets,  pulling  at  them  and  rolling 
on  her  side.  He  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  bright 
with  rebellion,  staring  at  him  from  wide  lids.  She 
was  gasping  in  dry  sobs. 

“Don’t — be — angry,”  he  said  eagerly,  “It’s — all 
right.  We — we’re  married.” 

Amy  thrust  wet  arms  against  his  neck  in  a  final 
protesting  effort  at  release.  His  embrace  was  in¬ 
vincible.  She  relaxed.  Her  lips  moved.  A  sound 
came  from  her  pulsing  throat — a  spoken  moan. 

“What  did  you  say?”  He  gave  a  little  tug  of 
impatience  at  the  coil  of  hair  in  his  hand.  “Amy, 
did  you  want  to  tell  me  something?” 

She  shook  her  head  and  her  eyes  closed  in  slow 
resignation.  His  mouth  descended.  She  began  to 
sob.  Her  tears  flowed  in  a  passionate  stream  from 
the  outer  corners  of  her  eyes  and  dropped  back  into 
the  ruddy  aromatic  masses  of  her  hair. 


VI 


A  fluent  rain  blowing  on  Daniel’s  face  awoke 
him.  Cursing,  he  jumped  up  and  closed  the  window, 
standing  to  blink  down  with  animosity  at  his  wet 
pillow.  On  the  way  to  the  bathroom  he  looked  at 
the  clock.  Five  minutes  to  eight.  Avoiding  boards 
that  habitually  creaked,  he  shut  himself  in  to  shave 
and  yawned  into  a  towel  as  he  dried  his  face  and 
hair.  After  a  tepid  bath  he  went  to  the  bedroom 
door  and  looked  in  at  Amy,  asleep  and  stretched 
diagonally  across  the  bed.  Too  bad  she’s  in  that 
position.  I  couldn’t  lie  down  there  without  waking 
her.  Better  not.  She  needs  to  rest  after  last  night’s 
chatter.  Glad  everything  went  off  well.  My 
mother-in-law  is  a  stiff  old  party.  Full-blown 
aristocrat  with  a  duchess’s  disdainful  nose.  Kept 
an  eye  on  her  new  son.  A  cold  eye  all-observant 
easily  malignant,  I  should  think.  Wonder  what 
she  and  Amy  were  whispering  about  all  that  time. 
Something  about  me.  They  looked  across  as  if  to 
fix  me  in  my  chair.  But  I  was  far  from  wanting 
to  mix  in  their  chatter.  Enough  on  my  hands  to 
capture  the  dry  obscurities  of  the  Corning.  That 
dinner  was  expensive.  I’ll  choose  the  restaurant 
next  time,  since  I  pay  the  check.  Must  talk  to  Amy 
this  morning  about  keeping  a  ledger. 


150 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


151 

He  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  stepping 
softly,  then  stopping  in  the  gray  light  before  her 
evening  cape,  hung  over  a  chair,  a  rippling  surface 
of  gold  and  black  brocade  beside  an  open  trunk. 
With  his  foot  he  touched  a  gold  shoe  lying  on 
the  Mexican  rug,  comparing  its  size  with  his  bare 
foot,  withdrawn  from  his  slipper.  Smiling,  he 
ventured  another  cautious  step  but  this  time  a 
crepitant  sound  from  the  flooring  cracked  a  betrayal 
and  he  heard  Amy  stir  in  bed. 

“Daniel!  What  are  you  doing?  It  isn’t  much 
after  dawn,  is  it?” 

“Nearly  nine  o’clock  and  another  rainstorm,”  he 
answered  and  went  to  stand  in  the  doorway.  “What 
about  coffee?  This  isn’t  Mrs.  Lewis’s  day,  you 
know.  Shall  I  make  it  now?”  He  came  in  and 
leaned  against  the  wall,  thin  in  his  brown  dressing 
gown,  hair  brushed  down,  wet  and  sleek  above  his 
high  forehead. 

“If  we’re  to  have  any,”  said  Amy  through  a 
yawn.  “I  don’t  know  how.”  She  lifted  pink  arms 
above  her  head  and  stretched  them  in  slow  languor. 
Watching  her  with  warm  eyes,  he  went  toward  the 
bed. 

“Rain’s  coming  in.  Want  the  window  down?” 
She  nodded  and  yawned  again,  a  frank  opening  of 
small  red  jaws,  delicately  feminine  and  set  with 
white  feline  teeth.  He  shut  the  window  and  she, 
seeing  his  lighted  face  turned  toward  her,  pulled  up 
the  sheet  of  coarse  cotton,  brought  from  the  Newark 


152 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


apartment.  Closing  her  eyes,  she  pressed  her  head 
into  the  pillow,  moving  it  until  by  this  impersonal 
caress  she  had  made  a  hollow  place  for  her  cheek. 
He  frowned  but  spoke  with  a  careless  air,  skimming 
over  the  surface  of  his  thoughts.  “I  suppose  by 
shutting  your  eyes  like  that  you  make  me  a  sign — 
like  a  Turkish  woman  placing  the  forbidding  slippers 
outside  her  door.”  She  sighed  in  a  sound  of  assent 
and  he  waited,  watching  for  her  eyelids  to  open  with 
a  question.  But  they  remained  closed,  holding  down 
their  fringe  of  dark,  curling  lashes  against  her  white, 
unflushed  skin.  He  walked  over  his  defeat  and  sat 
down  on  the  bed.  His  hand  went  out  to  her  shoulder 
and  stroked  it.  “It  seems  to  me  I’m  always  here, 
outside,  begging  for  some  sign  that  you  are  my  wife. 
Don’t  you  feel  married  to  me,  Amy?  I  was  just 
looking  at  the  room  in  there.  You  haven’t  even 
unpacked  your  trunk.  And  why  haven’t  you  sent 
for  your  other  things?” 

She  drawled  sleepily,  “No  place  to  put  them.” 

“We’ll  find  places.  After  the  trunks  are  emptied 
they  can  be  sent  down  to  the  store  room.” 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him.  “Don’t 
worry,  Daniel.  You  don’t  understand  these  things. 
I’ll  take  care  of  everything.  I’m  more  efficient  than 
you  think.”  Her  eyes,  glaucous  and  secret,  were 
smiling  into  his,  reading  him,  guarding  against  being 
read.  “You’ll  be  surprised  to  discover  what  a  good 
manager  I  am,”  she  added  and  finished  her  gaze. 

“What  do  you  mean?”  He  bent  down  to  her 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


153 


face,  holding  it  to  his  as  she  tried  to  twist  away. 
“No— no — let  me  kiss  you.  Amy,  kiss  me.  I  love 
you.  I’m  mad  for  you.  You  don’t  know  how  I 
love  you.  Can’t  express  myself — never  could — to 
tell  you — ” 

She  raised  her  head  and  sent  a  little  peck  at  his 
cheek.  “There.  Now  my  coffee — please,  Daniel. 
I’m  so  tired.” 

He  released  her  slowly  and  sat  up.  Turning,  he 
looked  through  the  window  at  the  gray  pelt  of  rain. 
The  flush  faded  from  his  face  and  his  eyes  grew 
dull.  “All  right,”  he  said.  “I’ll  put  on  the  water. 
Aren’t  you  going  to  get  up?” 

“Not  until  mamma  comes  for  me,”  she  said. 
“We’re  going  out.” 

In  the  kitchenette  he  arranged  the  plates  and  cups 
on  a  tray  and  put  rolls  in  the  oven.  His  forehead  in 
a  puzzled  frown  and  his  mouth  tight  and  concerned, 
he  returned  to  the  living  room  and  stood  looking  at 
a  small  typewriter  on  his  reading  table.  “Going  on 
with  your  writing,  Amy?” 

She  made  two  affirmative  sounds  behind  closed 
lips. 

“That’s  fine.  By  the  way — do  you  ever  sew?” 

Two  sounds  of  negation. 

“No?  What  do  you  do  all  day?” 

“Write — read — talk — go  out — come  in.” 

“I  suppose  you  have  friends  here — I  mean  besides 
Miss  Corning  and  that  Mr. — Mr. — ” 

“Oh,  yes.  A  few.” 


154 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“You  mustn’t  get  lonesome  in  the  evenings.  You 
must  have  them  come  here  whenever  you  like.” 

“Well — there  isn’t  much  room.” 

He  went  to  the  door  again,  speaking  in  an  ex¬ 
asperated  tone.  “That’s  the  second  time  you’ve  said 
that.  What’s  the  matter  with  this  apartment?  It’s 
very  nice  and  the  rent  is  moderate.  I’ve  planned 
some  improvements,  of  course.  Twin  beds  in  there, 
for  one  thing,  since  you  must  sleep  alone.  We’ll  be 
very  comfortable.” 

She  moved  in  bed,  burrowing  again  into  the 
pillow.  “Of  course.  Is  breakfast  ready?  My 
head  aches.” 

“I’m  sorry,  dear.  That  dinner  was  rich  last  night. 
Perhaps  if  you  had  eaten  plainer  food  in  a  simple 
place—” 

“It’s  not  that.  Mamma  and  I  ran  about  a  great 
deal  yesterday.” 

“Exhibitions  and  concerts,  I  suppose.” 

“Oh — this  and  that.  Planning  a  surprise  for  you 
was  one  thing.” 

“Really?”  He  advanced  into  her  room  again. 
“Tell  me.” 

“Not  yet.  Daniel,  please — my  breakfast.”  She 
lifted  herself  on  the  pillow  and  reached  out  to  the 
night  table  for  a  powder  puff  and  hairpins.  “I 
think  I’ll  have  it  here  if  you  don’t  mind  bringing  it.” 
She  smiled  at  him,  a  long  covinous  smile  that  locked 
him  out  of  intimacy.  Her  slender  arms  were  mov¬ 
ing  and  her  hands  were  filled  with  the  red  strands 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


155 


of  her  hair,  a  dull  potent  red  in  the  sad  gray  light. 

His  eyes,  lingering  on  her  throat,  were  again 
lighted  by  his  desire  and  words  he  wanted  to  speak 
caught  in  his  throat  as  he  turned  away. 


VII 


Mrs.  Fiske  was  expected  at  eleven.  At  ten 
minutes  to  that  hour  Daniel  nodded  ungraciously 
to  the  elevator  .boy  and  started  for  the  subway 
through  wet  streets.  Seated  in  a  train  his  cotton 
umbrella  between  his  knees,  he  unfolded  a  news¬ 
paper.  Such  is  the  habit  of  ocular  occupation  that 
I  must  stimulate  my  modern  nerves  with  print  I’ve 
read  before.  A  man  of  the  last  century  would  find 
stimulation  enough  in  rushing  along  under  the 
towers  of  Babel  at  this  velocity. 

His  eyes,  fastened  on  the  type,  went  slowly  out 
of  focus  and  turned  inward  on  the  plexus  of  his 
thought.  Wonder  what  surprise  Amy  has  cooked 
up  for  her  recruit  to  matrimony.  Women  love  se¬ 
crets.  Probably  a  set  of  neckties  chosen  by  her 
mother.  Soon  I  shall  have  passed  through  all  phases 
of  marriage.  Except  the  fading  of  the  rhapsody.  In 
most  matings  love  is  pilloried  and  the  caresses  be¬ 
come  dry  and  tacit.  I  wonder  why  Amy  is  still 
frightened.  Perhaps  because  joy  in  love  has  been 
so  ridden  out  of  women.  Their  submissions  in¬ 
herited  and  rebellions  lost.  They’ve  been  sought 
and  conquered,  not  consulted.  La  Froideur  des 
Femmes.  Must  read  it  tonight.  Always  buying 
books  and  forgetting  them.  She  had  it  last  night, 
156 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


157 


smiling.  Too  bad  men  have  no  aesthetic  appeal. 
But  if  they  were  like  the  Greek  idealizations  women 
wouldn’t  be  able  to  live  on  the  same  planet.  Only 
their  ugliness  keeps  their  egos  in  check.  I’d  rather 
have  Amy  coldly  monandrous  than  like  Mrs.  Stone. 
Her  husband  never  knew  the  number  of  her  daily 
deceptions  and  not  a  woman  in  Newark  bowed.  I 
must  coax  away  Amy’s  timidity  and  lead  her  from 
reluctant  moods.  Brakes  again.  What  station? 

He  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  platform, 
turning  his  head  as  a  girl  with  soft  fair  curls  in 
clusters  over  her  ears  came  into  the  car.  She  sat 
down  to  face  him,  settled  her  short  skirt  and  pulled 
at  her  hat.  With  eyes  on  Daniel,  she  opened  a 
stained,  brown  book.  As  he  appraised  her  fresh 
youth  and  its  appeal  of  inexperience,  she  moved 
self-consciously.  He  lifted  his  paper.  Ewig- 
Weibliche.  But  no.  I  abstain.  My  new  rectitude  is  a 
dry  garden  where  a  maimed  Priapus  watches  from 
his  pedestal  with  the  cold  spirit  of  a  spire.  Wonder 
what  she’s  reading.  As  a  matter  of  interest.  An 
entirely  asexual  thought.  But  I  won’t  look  over. 
I’d  only  be  affronted  iby  Anthony  Hope  or  Anthony 
Trollope.  She  would  divide  books  into  two  classes 
— interesting  and  no  good.  The  critical  faculty 
waits  for  the  late  twenties  and  usually  doesn’t 
develop  at  all.  Next  station.  Hope  I  wasn’t  needed 
at  the  office  last  night.  Trainer  smiled  his  sneer  at 
my  hymeneal  absences,  but  I’ll  let  the  circulation 
figures  defend  me. 


158 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  folded  his  paper,  eyes  away  from  the  girl 
across  the  car.  As  the  train  slowed  down  he  arose 
and  stood  near  the  door.  There’d  be  no  harm  in 
looking.  Practising  will  power.  Won’t  turn. 
Curious  how  you  can  love  one  woman  yet  think  of 
others  you  don’t  want.  A  male  propensity  that 
will  perhaps  be  wiped  out  as  the  tendency  to  ma¬ 
triarchy  grows  on  us.  That  is,  on  America.  Ages 
away  from  it  in  Europe.  Here  the  sexes  mingle 
and  exchange  their  characteristics.  Historians  see 
in  that  a  sign  of  decay.  But  I  say  it’s  progress  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  circle. 

The  train  ground  to  a  stop  and  he  hurried  to  the 
stairway.  In  the  street  a  girl  in  a  blue  suit  walked 
before  him,  crossing  at  the  place  he  always  chose, 
making  the  turns  that  were  his  daily  direction. 
Again  my  eyes  are  drawn  in  harmless  attraction.  I 
like  the  way  she  walks,  shoulders  motionless,  the 
work  done  from  the  hips  as  it  should  be.  Nice 
foot  and  ankle.  Can’t  see  her  head  for  the  umbrella. 
Damn  that  puddle.  Half  way  over  my  shoe.  Al¬ 
ways  something  wrong  for  me  with  the  weather. 
From  May  to  September  only  may  I  praise  the 
seasons. 

The  girl  closed  her  umbrella  before  the  revolving 
door  of  his  office  building  and  when  he  pushed  his 
way  into  the  corridor  she  was  waiting  for  an 
elevator.  She  turned  as  he  approached  and  looked 
at  him.  A  deep  blush  spread  over  her  face  and  she 
bowed  with  a  quick  crisp  nod. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


159 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  looked  over  her  head. 
“Good  morning,  Miss  Elliot.” 

He  followed  her  into  the  next  elevator,  staring  at 
her  profile  as  they  rose  to  the  editorial  floor.  She 
has  a  bad  temper  but  a  good  nose.  Nice  modelling. 
I  remember  noticing  golden  glints  in  her  eyes  that 
night  she  ran  after  me  with  letters  to  sign.  Before 
I  knew  Amy.  Not  long  before.  If  she  hadn’t  had 
that  annoying  manner  I  might  have  asked  her  out  to 
dinner.  Probably  would  have  started  an  office 
affair.  “A  bad  business,”  old  Bill  McMahon  used 
to  say.  Yet  he  tried  to  kiss  every  new  girl  and  if 
she  told  he  gave  her  a  wedding  or  funeral  to  cover. 
Wonder  if  Elliot  likes  her  new  job.  She  doesn’t 
look  happy.  Sorry  now  I  changed  her  for  that 
little  dumbell  Parks. 

The  elevator  floated  to  its  precise  station.  Daniel, 
stepping  out  into  the  corridor,  waited  for  Miss 
Elliot  and  as  she  came  forth  with  lips  pressed  to¬ 
gether  and  face  turned  away  from  him,  he  fell 
into  step  beside  her. 

“That  new  girl  I  have  is  a  total  loss,”  he  began. 
“I’d  like  to  have  you  back.  Will  you  come?” 

She  did  not  answer.  They  approached  the  door  of 
the  city  room  in  silence. 

He  frowned  at  his  shoes.  Sullen  as  usual.  Per¬ 
haps  better  off  without  her.  Could  make  her  come  if 
I  liked  or  have  her  fired.  Why  the  hell  can’t  she 
learn  to  give  and  take? 

At  the  door  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass.  She 


160  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

stopped,  fumbling  with  her  handbag  and  twisting 
her  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  unable  to  select 
from  her  disturbance  a  suitable  action  or  word. 

“All  right,”  she  said  unexpectedly  in  a  quick 
loud  voice. 

“Good,”  said  Daniel.  He  gazed  with  curiosity  at 
her  face  as  she  went  through  the  door.  What’s  the 
matter  with  her?  She  has  tears  in  her  eyes.  That’s 
why  she  didn’t  look  up.  What  was  she  crying 
about?  Perhaps  the  other  girls  teased  her  about 
being  transferred.  Well  if  she’d  kept  her  mouth 
shut  about  Amy  it  wouldn’t  have  happened.  Of¬ 
fices  ought  to  have  “No  Gossiping”  signs.  Nobody 
here  yet.  Early  enough  to  look  over  my  mail  in 
peace. 

He  read  telegrams  and  telephone  messages  and 
then  sorted  out  personal  letters  from  the  mail. 
Mother’s  writing.  Glad  she  sends  letters  here 
instead  of  to  the  apartment.  Amy  might  want 
to  see.  Hope  father’s  no  worse.  Pencil  even  for 
envelope.  Her  ink  must  be  at  last  a  water-saturated 
solution. 

He  stretched  out  his  legs  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
He  opened  the  letter. 

“Dear  Dan :  Your  Pa  says  you  are  an  unnatural 
son  and  he’s  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  in  the 
house.  He  says  your  wife  must  be  unnatural  too  or 
she  would  want  to  see  your  parents.  Your  Pa 
thinks  maybe  she  will  try  to  turn  you  against  us 
and  keep  your  money  for  herself.  I  tell  him  you 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  161 

won’t  forget  us,  Danny.  You  were  always  a  good 
boy  if  peculiar.  But  that’s  because  you  have  brains, 
I  tell  your  Pa.  Write  soon  when  you  will  bring 
your  bride.  Ruth  and  Andy  were  saying  yesterday 
it’s  awful  queer  how  you  keep  away.  But  tell  your 
wife  a  warm  welcome  awaits  her  in  Newark.  Hop¬ 
ing  to  hear  soon,  Your  loving  mother,  Annie  Geer. 
P.  S.  Your  Pa  says  to  ask  if  your  wife  is  a  good 
Christian  and  hopes  you  will  go  to  Divine  Service 
with  her  on  Sunday.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
you,  he  says.” 

He  laid  the  letter  on  his  desk.  Pain  and  resent¬ 
ment.  My  position  cannot  be  justified  since  it  is  a 
question  of  my  pride.  If  I  do  my  filial  duty  I’ll 
lose  Amy’s  respect.  It’s  not  enough  to  say  my 
family  is  humble.  To  be  entirely  honest  I  should 
show  her  the  revolting  details.  I  could  pacify  father 
by  increasing  the  monthly  check.  But  money 
wouldn’t  comfort  mother.  Ruth  doesn’t  matter. 
She  finished  herself  by  marrying  Andrew.  Who’s 
this  coming  now?  Office  boy  with  an  early  an¬ 
noyance. 

“I  suppose  you  think  you  don’t  earn  your  fifteen 
per  unless  you’re  running  in  here  every  few  minutes. 
What  is  it  now?” 

A  feeble  voice  behind  him  coughed  in  apology. 
“Miss  Elliot  says  you  want  to  see  me.  Is  it  for 
dictation,  Mr.  Geer?” 

Daniel  turned  to  a  plump,  loose-haired  girl  and 
flipped  his  fingers  across  her  note-book.  “No. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


162 

Never  any  more.  Miss  Elliot  is  coming  back.  Tell 
Mr.  Trainer  to  have  you  changed.” 

“Oh.  Then  you  haven’t  any  dictation?”  She 
stared  at  him  with  frightened  puzzled  eyes,  her 
voice  as  soft  as  a  whisper. 

“No.” 

She  went  away  and  he  reached  for  his  other 
letters.  Didn’t  mean  to  terrify  her.  She’d  better 
leave  business  and  get  married.  Just  the  type 
some  men  would  like.  She’d  say  “Yes,  sir”  and 
“No,  sir”  in  her  marriage  bed.  Now  who’s  coming 
in  here? 

It  was  Miss  Elliot,  her  hair  flatly  netted  and  a 
freshly  starched  blouse  under  her  blue  serge  coat. 

“Good,”  said  Daniel.  “Now  let’s  get  to  work. 
Here  are  letters  from  yesterday.  Do  them  over 
and  get  me  the  salary  list.  You  haven’t  forgotten 
where  things  are?” 

She  smiled.  “No,  Mr.  Geer.” 

He  looked  at  her,  taking  in  with  a  swift  glance 
her  slightly  reddened  eyelids  and  relaxed  mouth. 
Her  eyes  turned  to  meet  his  gaze  and  revealed  for  a 
moment  the  sadness  of  a  locked  life.  As  he  watched 
they  hardened  with  a  secret  resentment  that  had 
turned  back  upon  itself.  Then  her  swollen  lids  fell 
over  the  hard  hazel  points  of  light.  With  an  abrupt 
vehement  gesture  she  snatched  from  the  desk  the 
letters  he  had  indicated  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Daniel  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  swung  back 
to  his  desk. 


VIII 


He  returned  home  at  midnight.  The  hall  boy 
was  sitting  at  the  telephone  board,  his  ears  engaged 
with  a  double  receiver.  Daniel  gave  the  marred  old 
elevator  an  impatient  glance  and  started  up  the 
stairs.  He  ran  up  the  first  flight  and  half  the  second. 
Before  his  door  he  stopped  to  hang  his  umbrella  on 
his  arm  and  find  his  key  ring.  Fitting  one  of  the 
slender  keys  into  the  lock,  he  smiled  and  turned  it. 

“Here  I  am !”  he  called  as  he  flung  open  the  door. 

A  wall  of  darkness  and  silence  faced  him.  He 
stepped  in  and  turned  on  the  lights.  The  room  was 
bare.  Of  his  belongings,  only  two  stringy  curtains 
remained,  flapping  at  the  windows. 

“What  the  hell,,,  he  said  and  ran  into  the  bedroom. 
It,  too,  disclosed  itself  empty  and  blank.  He  stood 
in  the  doorway,  blinking  at  the  light  and  staring  at 
a  green  shade  that  hung  askew  at  the  window.  His 
hand  went  to  his  hat  and  pushed  it  back  from  his 
forehead  in  a  gesture  of  bewilderment. 

“What  the  hell/’  he  said  again.  “What — the — 
hell — ” 

He  ran  out  of  the  apartment  and  downstairs  to 
the  switchboard.  The  boy  was  still  talking  earnestly. 
Daniel  put  out  his  arm  and  dragged  the  metal 
163 


164  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

band  from  the  wooly  head.  “Where’s  my  wife?” 
he  demanded. 

The  boy  rolled  his  eyes.  “Your  wife,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“Yes!”  shouted  Daniel.  “Where  is  she?” 

“I  don’t  know.  She  moved  out  mighty  sudden — ” 

A  disk  on  the  board  dropped  and  whirred  and  the 
impulse  to  respond  moved  the  boy’s  arm  toward  the 
rubber  tubes.  “Got  a  call  to  Chicago  on  here,”  he 
muttered. 

Daniel  seized  a  bony  shoulder  and  pressed  it  with 
his  fingers.  “Sam — did  you  see  my  wife?  Where 
did  she  go?” 

Sam  stared  stupidly  into  Daniel’s  distracted  pale 
face.  “I  don’t  know  nothing.  She  give  me  five 
dollars  and  a  letter.”  His  pink-tipped  fingers  began 
to  pat  his  pockets.  Shaking  his  head,  he  stood  up 
and  lifted  the  telephone  directory  from  its  place  on 
top  of  the  switchboard.  “It  ain’t  here,”  he  said, 
peering  at  the  wood. 

Daniel  tightened  his  fingers  and  shook  the  narrow 
shoulder.  His  umbrella  dislodged  itself  from  his 
arm  and  banged  to  the  floor.  “If  you’ve  lost  it  I’ll 
break  your  back,”  he  said  in  a  voice  inflated  to 
stridency.  His  chin  began  to  tremble  like  a  rabbit’s 
and  a  thin  moisture  was  pressed  out  from  the  pores 
of  his  high  forehead. 

“I  ain’t  lost  it,”  Sam  protested.  “Leggo  my 
arm.”  He  lifted  a  pile  of  dishes  on  which  lay 
crusts  and  a  coffee  cup.  “Guess  this  is  it.”  He 
picked  up  an  envelope  from  beneath  the  bottom  plate. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


165 


Daniel  moved  violently  and  his  hat  fell  off  and 
rolled  under  the  chair.  He  snatched  and  tore  the 
paper  in  one  gesture. 

“Dear  Daniel,”  he  read.  “Your  surprise  is  ready  at 
140  Riverside  Drive.  Come  as  soon  as  you  get  this. 
We  will  be  waiting  for  you.  Amy.” 

The  hot  anxiety  in  his  face  cooled  4o  astonishment 
and  settled  into  lines  of  cold  resolve.  “What  God 
damned  nonsense  is  this  ?”  He  waved  his  letter  into 
the  stupefied  black  face  and  Sam  put  his  back  against 
the  board  and  raised  a  defensive  elbow.  Daniel 
stood  glaring  accusations.  Neither  moved.  The 
disks  of  the  board  whirred  again  in  compelling 
rhythm.  Daniel  turned  slowly  and  scooped  up  his 
hat.  He  stepped  over  his  umbrella  and  made  for 
the  door. 

In  the  street  he  began  to  run.  The  rain,  col¬ 
lected  into  pools,  made  disregarded  barriers  for  his 
flying  feet.  Two  blocks  away  he  found  a  taxicab 
and,  panting,  gave  the  address.  “As  fast  as  you  can 
and  damn  the  cops,”  he  said  and  jumped  in  to  wait 
with  stiff  folded  arms. 

The  taxicab  bumped  over  cobblestones  and  sang 
along  wet  asphalt.  It  rolled  around  corners  and 
presently  turned  into  Riverside  Drive.  Daniel 
leaned  out  of  the  window  and  stared  at  the  stretch 
of  lofty  houses,  their  windows  gently  luminous  in 
the  misty  midnight  air.  To  his  left  the  Hudson 
shone  under  sparse  lights  like  a  lake  of  black  oil 
whose  instinct  for  motion  had  been  subdued  by  the 


1 66  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

threat  of  encircling  cliffs.  A  sharp  turn  of  the 
steering  geer  threw  Daniel  across  the  seat.  The 
brakes  caught  at  the  wheels  and  the  cab  slid  to  a 
stop.  He  descended,  paid  and  hurried  through  or¬ 
nate  iron  doors  to  arouse  their  nodding  guardian. 

“Is  Mrs.  Geer  staying  with  you?” 

The  man  pushed  back  his  chair.  “She’s  in  D. 
On  the  second.  Said  I  was  to  bring  you  right 
up.” 

In  the  elevator  Daniel  buttoned  his  coat  and 
straightened  his  hat.  He  saw  the  man’s  eyes  on  his 
feet  and  glanced  down  at  his  oozing  shoes.  “Wet 
night,”  he  said. 

“That’s  right.  They  say  it’s  good  for  the  crops.” 

Daniel  grunted  and  stepped  out  into  the  corridor 
to  obey  a  directing  finger.  His  ring  was  answered  at 
once.  A  maid  in  black  and  white  regarded  his 
dishevelled  wetness  with  doubtful  eyes. 

“Are  you  Mr.  Geer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Go  right  in,  sir.  They’re  in  the  dining  room.” 

He  had  started  to  walk  down  the  hall  but  her 
words  stopped  him.  His  hand  went  to  his  hat  and 
he  allowed  her  to  take  it  from  his  cold  fingers.  As 
he  remained  in  indecision  he  heard  Amy’s  metallic 
laugh  sounding  among  voices.  Frowning,  he  turned 
on  the  maid. 

“I  want  to  speak  to  my  wife  out  here,”  he  said. 
“Go  tell  her — please.” 

He  waited,  walking  back  and  forth,  six  steps  to 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  167 

the  door,  six  to  the  twisting  of  the  hall.  The  maid 
returned. 

“They  want  you  to  come  in,”  she  said.  “They’re 
at  table.” 

He  clenched  his  hands  as  he  walked  at  her  heels. 
She  led  him  to  a  door  and  he  passed  into  a  large  and 
softly  lighted  room.  At  a  flower-covered  table  sat 
Mrs.  Fiske,  Amy  and  Dr.  Edwards.  They  faced 
him,  waiting  for  his  greeting  with  uplifted  glasses. 

He  met  their  eyes,  stern  and  unsmiling.  Amy, 
concern  in  her  face,  flung  the  scarlet  train  of  her 
dress  over  her  bare  arm  and  left  the  table. 

“We’ve  been  waiting  for  you,”  she  said  as  she 
came  to  his  side. 

Mrs.  Fiske  lifted  her  silver  head  and  followed  in 
severe  black  lace.  Smiling  a  buoyant  welcome,  Dr. 
Edwards  raised  his  heavy  body  from  his  chair  and 
came  last,  a  glass  in  his  hand. 

“This  is  your  surprise,  Daniel.”  Amy  spoke 
again,  holding  out  her  hand.  She  took  his  clenched 
fingers  into  her  nervous  warm  palm. 

He  faced  the  three,  obstinate  pale  eyes  on  the 
signs  of  their  festivity.  “What’s  all  this  about?” 
His  question,  directed  at  Amy,  ignored  the  presence 
of  the  others.  “What’s  happened  at  our  apartment  ? 
Where  are  my  things?” 

Amy  gave  a  nervous  laugh  and  stepped  back 
beside  her  mother.  Red  and  black,  they  stood 
in  feminine  combination  against  his  anger,  the 
wariness  of  the  weak  in  their  gray  eyes.  Dr. 


1 68 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Edwards,  lumbering  up  behind,  held  out  his  glass 
as  a  talisman  of  good  humor  and  called  over  the 
women’s  heads. 

“Well,  Geer,  I  must  say  that’s  a  splendid  ex¬ 
pression  you’re  wearing  for  your  house  warming. 
The  supper  is  my  contribution.  The  flowers  are 
from  young  Harrington.  Now  don’t  dress  but  sit 
down  with  an  honest  appetite.  Duck  and  cham¬ 
pagne.  Now  then!”  And  as  Daniel  stood  with  a 
face  of  stone,  he  added,  “Just  try  this  glass  of  wine. 
Last  of  my  cellar.” 

Daniel  released  himself  from  silence  with  a  shake 
of  the  shoulders.  “I  don’t  want  wine  or  duck,”  he 
said.  “I  want  an  explanation.  Amy!” 

She  summoned  a  vivid  smile.  “Don’t  be  an 
inelastic  old  bear.  This  is  your  surprise.  We’re 
going  to  live  here.” 

Mrs.  Fiske  had  been  watching  Daniel.  She  did 
not  wait  for  his  comment  to  Amy  but  came  forward 
at  once  and  put  the  case  in  a  modulated  contralto 
voice  that  asked  from  him  calm  judgment  and  a 
reasonable  viewpoint.  “You  can’t  expect  Amy  to 
live  in  that  bit  of  a  box.  No  comfort,  no  room 
for  anything.”  She  shook  her  distinguished  head 
at  him  and  smiled.  “Oh,  I  daresay  quite  all  right 
for  a  bachelor.  But  not  appropriate  now  that  you’re 
married  to  Amy.” 

Daniel  replied  with  pale  shaking  lips.  “Amy 
understood  she  was  marrying  a  poor  man.” 

“See  here,  Geer!”  Raising  his  hand,  Dr.  Edwards 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  169 

came  to  challenge.  “You  can’t  hide  away  any 
longer.  You  must  take  your  place  now  as  a  success¬ 
ful  man.  This  apartment  is  not  expensive.  I 
arranged  the  terms  myself.  Sublet  furnished  from 
some  people  I  know.  You’d  better  succumb  to  the 
three  conspirators  and  sit  down  to  supper.” 

Daniel  did  not  look  at  Dr.  Edwards.  When  the 
sound  of  his  heavy  voice  had  died  away  in  the  big 
room  he  resumed  his  attack  on  Amy.  “You  should 
have  consulted  me.  I’m  your  husband.  It’s  for  me  to 
decide  where  we  shall  live  since  I  pay  the  bills.”  He 
motioned  with  hostility  toward  the  flowers  and  wine. 
“I  can’t  afford  this.  We  return  home  tomorrow.” 

Having  set  free  this  ultimatum,  he  stopped, 
swallowing  and  suddenly  embarrassed  in  his  anger, 
examining  the  scorn  in  Mrs.  Fiske’s  eyes  and  the 
dismay  he  had  thrown  upon  Amy.  Dr.  Edwards  was 
turning  away,  shrugging  his  wide  shoulders  and 
looking  down  at  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

Amy  touched  her  mother’s  arm  and  gave  her  a 
signalling  glance  from  sullen  green  eyes.  Mrs. 
Fiske  nodded  and  went  to  Dr.  Edwards’  side. 

“Let’s  have  our  supper,”  she  said.  “You  and  I, 
Rufus,  the  calm  and  old.  I  leave  strife  and  readjust¬ 
ments  to  the  young  people.” 

Amy  went  close  to  Daniel  and  laid  her  long  white 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  “We’ll  do  whatever  you  think 
best,  of  course,”  she  said  in  a  gentle  voice.  “But 
before  you  decide  come  with  me.  I  have  something 
to  show  you.”  Her  bare  arm  turned  him  about. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


170 

“Don’t  quarrel  before  mamma,”  she  pleaded  in  a 
whisper. 

She  led  him  across  the  hall  and  into  a  brown 
and  yellow  bedroom.  “Yours,”  she  said.  “Look.” 
She  drew  him  to  the  bed.  The  silk  cover  and  lace 
trimmed  sheet  had  been  turned  back.  On  them  lay 
his  pyjamas,  dressing  gown  and  a  pink  chiffon 
nightdress.  Arm  in  his  and  head  against  his 
shoulder,  she  began  to  speak.  “I  thought  you’d 
like  living  here.  I  thought  you’d  be  happy- — tonight 
— here  with  me.”  She  lifted  her  face  of  white 
velvet  to  his  and  her  eyes  were  soft  with  disappoint¬ 
ment  and  tears.  “We’ve  worked  for  days.  Mamma 
and  Dr.  Edwards  were  like  children  at  Christmas. 
I  never  dreamed  that  you — ”  Her  voice  trembled 
as  she  studied  his  unrelenting  face. 

“I’m  sorry,  Amy,”  he  said.  “I  want  you  to 
be  happy.  But  this  is  impossible.  I  haven’t  the 
money — ” 

“But  it’s  not  expensive,”  she  cried,  opening  her 
eyes.  “Dr.  Edwards  told  you — it’s  a  bargain, 
really.” 

“Not  for  a  man  in  my  position,”  he  replied, 
drawing  away.  “And  that  settles  it.” 

Amy  began  to  cry.  “My  beautiful  surprise  is  a 
ghastly  failure — tomorrow  I’ll — have  to — go  back 
to  that — dreadful  place!” 

Daniel’s  stiff  shoulders  began  to  relax.  “But, 
Amy,  you  knew  I  couldn’t  afford  this  luxury.  You 
have  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money — •” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  171 

‘‘Luxury,  Daniel  ?”  Amazement  shone  as  bright¬ 
ly  as  her  tears.  “This  simple  little  place?” 

“Luxury,”  he  repeated  in  a  convinced  tone.  “I’ve 
never  considered  living  like  this.  Less  than  ever 
now  I’m  married.  I  have  obligations.  I  must  think 
of  the  future.” 

She  .bent  her  head.  A  tear  fell  on  his  coat  and  he 
watched  it  glitter  on  the  rough  cloth.  She  pressed 
her  perfumed  hair  against  his  cheek  and  slowly 
turned  her  head  to  gaze  at  him  with  a  curious  lighted 
look.  Her  lips  began  to  swell.  In  a  sudden  move¬ 
ment  she  threw  them  against  his  mouth  and  they 
clung  there.  Her  arms  caught  at  him  and  climbed  to 
encircle  his  neck. 

Daniel’s  eyes,  filled  with  the  scarlet  color  of  her 
dress  and  the  whiteness  of  her  neck,  faltered  and 
closed.  His  arms  left  his  sides  and  went  to  press 
her  naked  shoulder  more  tightly  against  him.  Hot 
blood  flooded  up  through  his  cheeks  and  stained  his 
high  forehead.  Powerless  to  move,  he  felt  his 
anger  and  resolve  drawn  out  of  him  by  her  soft 
strong  mouth.  Presently  she  drew  away  and  went 
to  snap  off  the  lights,  returning  to  him  in  darkness 
that  flashed  and  palpitated. 


IX 


They  walked  back  into  the  dining  room  hand  in 
hand.  Mrs.  Fiske  looked  up  in  sharp  agitation  and 
Amy  sent  her  a  nod  of  elation.  Her  mother’s  lips 
flickered  upward. 

“Ah,  Daniel,  you  changed  after  all,”  she  said  and 
turned  to  Dr.  Edwards.  “My  son-in-law  looks 
rather  well  in  a  dinner  jacket,  I  was  telling  him  so 
last  night.” 

Daniel  bowed.  “May  I  sit  by  you?” 

“I  was  hoping  you  would.”  She  gave  a  quick 
laugh  of  relief  and  looked  at  Amy  settling  herself 
in  the  opposite  chair. 

Amy  began  to  talk  into  Dr.  Edwards’  large,  genial 
face,  making  animated  gestures  strange  to  her  list¬ 
less  hands  and  laughing  between  her  words  as  she 
begged  him  to  choose  slices  of  duck  for  her  plate. 
She  held  out  her  glass  to  Daniel  and  he  filled  it  twice 
before  her  thirst  was  satisfied. 

“That’s  the  psychological  effect  of  prohibition,” 
said  Mrs.  Fiske.  “I  remember  when  one  glass  was 
enough.  In  fact,  up  to  four  months  ago  when  she 
came  to  New  York - ” 

“No  tales,  mamma!”  cried  Amy. 

“No  secrets,  either,”  said  Dr.  Edwards  in  his 


172 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  173 

booming  voice,  “secrets  and  husbands  are  a  bad  com¬ 
bination.^ 

“Not  at  all,”  put  in  Mrs.  Fiske.  “If  poor  dear 
Arthur  knew  what  I  had  spared  him  he  would  cry 
‘Thank  you’  from  his  grave.” 

Daniel  sat  quietly  before  full  plate  and  glass.  He 
looked  at  Dr.  Edwards,  ripened  into  culture  and 
habits  of  comfort.  His  gaze  passed  to  Mrs.  Fiske 
of  sophisticated  traditions  and  worldly  charm.  He 
glanced  about  the  room,  marking  unobstrusive  signs 
of  good  taste  and  enjoying  the  odors  of  food  and 
flowers  that  played  in  his  nostrils.  My  vita  nuova 
of  which  I  have  dreamed  all  my  life.  I  wish  Bob 
and  some  of  the  unkempt  Newark  crowd  could  look 
in  on  me  now,  seated  with  a  society  woman  and  a 
famous  amateur  of  the  arts.  Sunday  supplement 
picture,  “Daniel  Geer,  the  well-known  young  editor, 
in  his  New  York  home.  Mrs.  Geer  was  a  popular 
member  of  Boston’s  younger  set.”  How  beautiful 
love  has  made  her  tonight!  She’s  like  a  gorgeous 
tropical  flower  that  has  blossomed  at  last.  Mother 
would  be  shocked  at  that  dress’s  lack  above  waistline 
and  ankle.  Grandmother  said  in  her  day  young 
women  had  respect  for  their  sex  and  proved  it  by  the 
yardstick.  She  wore  thirteen  petticoats  when  she 
was  married  and  slept  in  three  of  them.  Amy’s 
night-dresses  are  veils,  for  the  puritans  have  had 
their  day.  We  relax  among  pagans  and  cultivate 
the  sixth  sense — beauty.  La  Beaute.  Je  suis  belle , 
6  mortels,  comme  un  reve  de  pierre.  That  might 


174 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


have  been  written  for  Amy.  Her  awakened  body  in 
marble  would  make  a  sculptor  as  famous  as  Phidias. 
Funny  about  Baudelaire  always  calling  a  woman  a  vil 
animal  and  never  being  able  to  think  or  write  of 
anything  else.  Through  women  he  sensed  beauty 
as  all  men  before  him.  Without  women  the  aesthetic 
word  would  never  have  been  spoken  in  the  rough 
male  struggle  and  the  ethereal  ichor  from  the  veins 
of  the  gods  would  never  have  been  tasted  by  mortals. 
Her  cheeks  still  flaming  from  my  kisses.  Why  do 
I  please  her?  I  didn’t  know  I  understood  the  art 
of  pleasing  women.  That  book  I  had  at  high  school. 
How  to  make  love.  How  to  court  a  bashful  girl. 
How  to  make  your  girl  love  you.  What  to  do  be¬ 
fore  or  after  the  wedding.  All  information  for  ten 
cents,  postage  included. 

“Daniel,”  Amy  said  softly. 

He  received  with  a  thrill  her  signal  of  gratitude 
and  watched  her  lift  her  glass  to  him  above  the  red 
rim  of  her  gown,  noting  new  bronze  tints  that 
her  hair  received  from  the  light  that  filtered  through 
the  saffron  silk  of  the  hanging  lamp. 

“Your  Mona  Lisa  subtleties  are  gone  tonight,”  he 
said.  “You  are  her  highly  colored  young  sister.” 

She  laughed  and  held  out  her  glass.  “More  cham¬ 
pagne,  please.  Fill  it  full !” 

Dr.  Edwards  fixed  Daniel  with  the  eye  of  a 
patron.  “What’s  the  matter?”  he  inquired.  “You 
haven’t  touched  a  thing.  Did  you  mean  what  you 
said — no  wine  no  duck?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


175 


“He’s  been  feasting  his  eyes,”  said  Mrs.  Fiske. 
She  smiled  at  him  and  gave  his  arm  a  playful  poking 
with  her  finger.  “I  saw  you.  I  see  everything.  Eat 
your  supper,  Daniel.” 

He  looked  about  at  the  three  faces  and  fetched  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction.  Shall  I  tell  them  I’ve  never 
tasted  duck  or  champagne  before?  No.  My  own 
counsel. 

His  fingers  closed  on  a  fork  and  he  looked  with 
eyes  of  pride  at  Amy’s  happy  face.  “Thanks.  I 
guess  I’m  hungry  after  all,”  he  said. 


X 


Mr.  Bird  walked  out  of  his  office,  polished  stick 
hooked  to  his  arm,  gray  hat  and  gray  gloves  in  his 
hand.  He  swung  importantly  past  the  long  city 
desk,  glancing  at  the  absorbed  shaded  faces  bent 
over  clippings  and  copy  and  at  hands  streaked  with 
the  ink  of  evening  editions  and  sticky  with  con¬ 
tinuous  dipping  into  pots  of  paste.  The  lull  follow¬ 
ing  the  reporters’  rush  of  copy  for  the  first  edition 
lay  over  the  room  and  only  the  typewriter  of  the 
dramatic  critic  still  tapped,  recording  with  few 
corrections  his  reactions  to  a  wasted  evening. 

The  publisher  turned  to  the  right  at  the  end  of 
the  city  desk  and  halted  behind  Daniel  and  Trainer, 
standing  there  with  a  first  page  proof  between  them. 
“Busy,  Mr.  Geer?” 

Daniel  looked  up.  “Just  finishing.  Thought  I’d 
take  the  elevated  wreck  off  page  one.  Grover  tele¬ 
phoned  no  one  hurt  after  all.  The  first  reports, 
you  know - ” 

“Oh,  well,  well.  Yes.”  His  rather  stupid  eyes 
wandered  away  in  vague  unseeing  glances.  “Can 
we  step  into  your  office  a  moment?” 

“Certainly.  Come  right  in,  Mr.  Bird.”  Daniel 
gave  over  the  marked  page  to  Trainer’s  hands.  Eyes 
turned  surly.  Jealous.  Afraid  I’ll  get  another  com- 
176 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


1 77 

pliment.  Wonder  where  Horace  finds  those  gray 
hats? 

Mr.  Bird  passed  through  the  door  and  turned.  “I 
won’t  detain  you.  Fact  is,  I  want  your  address. 
Seems  my  wife  knew  Mrs.  Geer  at  school  and  wants 
to  renew  the  acquaintance.” 

Daniel  gave  him  a  delighted  smile.  “I’m  sure 
Amy — my  wife — she’ll  be  delighted — I’ll  just  write 
it  down  for  you.”  He  went  to  his  desk  and  un¬ 
screwed  his  fountain  pen  with  nervous  fingers. 
Lucky  it’s  the  new  apartment.  Nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  there  though  it  may  not  be  like  his  at 
the  Ansonia.  Um — 140  Riverside  Drive.  That’s 
a  good  beginning.  Mrs.  Bird  must  have  read  about 
our  marriage  in  the  papers.  Announcement  carried 
in  all. 

He  brought  back  the  card.  “Thank  you.  I’ll 
tell  Mrs.  Geer.” 

Mr.  Bird  shook  hands  benevolently.  “I’ll  proba¬ 
bly  drop  in  too.  Some  Sunday?  Goodnight,  Mr. 
Geer.” 

Daniel  stood  smiling  in  the  doorway,  noting  that 
Trainer  glanced  over  from  his  chair  with  unfriendly 
eyes  fixed  on  Mr.  Bird’s  departure.  Envious  sour 
disposition.  Always  one  sorehead  in  every  office. 
He’ll  sneer  himself  out  of  his  job  one  of  these  days. 
Shall  I  telephone  the  news  to  Amy?  Better  not. 
Operators  always  listen  to  personal  calls.  I’ll  be 
home  in  half  an  hour.  Take  along  that  book  on  the 
South  Sea  tribes.  Subway  reading  bad  for  the 


178  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

eyes.  I’ll  be  wearing  glasses  in  ten  years — one  of 
the  prices  paid  for  print.  Carry  overcoat.  Warm. 
Won’t  say  goodnight  to  Trainer’s  glumness.  Now 
out  before  anyone  stops  me  with  business  or  banali¬ 
ties. 

In  the  street  he  stepped  into  a  gentle  May  wind 
that  announced  the  coming  of  June.  A  hot  summer 
expected,  they  say.  Wonder  how  Amy  stands  city 
heat.  She’s  looking  tired  out.  Drawn  and  white 
every  morning.  No  breakfast  for  two  weeks.  Can’t 
eat  with  me  in  the  morning  but  lively  enough  at 
night  to  run  around  with  Corning.  Hope  she’s 
over  her  Bar  Harbor  idea.  I  want  a  quiet  week  at 
some  Staten  Island  inn.  Trip  to  Maine  expensive. 
If  she  knew  about  my  raise  she’d  be  off  on  another 
shopping  tour,  never  thinking  to  add  up  rent,  food, 
maid,  income  tax,  monthly  check  to  Newark  and  a 
thousand  incidentals.  I  must  find  a  way  to  beat  the 
spending  game.  Old  Rufus’  fault.  Always  encour¬ 
aging  her  with  a  playful  eye  on  me. 

“Paper  sir  ?  All  about  the  big  wreck - ” 

He  looked  down  on  the  unwarranted  headlines 
of  a  notorious  rival. 

The  boy  shook  them  in  his  face.  “Buy  a  paper, 
sir?” 

Daniel  pushed  him  aside  and  went  down  into  the 
dank  tunnel  that  burrowed  its  metal  path  the  length 
of  the  city.  My  day  ends  as  it  begins — in  the  sub¬ 
way.  Carried  to  work.  Carried  home.  Even  the 
savages  of  this  book  have  a  choice  in  their  method 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


179 


of  locomotion.  They  may  walk,  run,  swim,  paddle 
or  ride  a  board  through  the  surf.  Time  to  think 
there.  I  used  to  fill  hours  with  books  and  reflection. 
Le  temps  mange  la  vie.  So  does  marriage.  My 
time  now  eaten  by  a  woman  and  my  tranquillity  has 
become  a  boiling  pot  of  emotion  and  will  struggling 
against  will.  My  brain  cells  plead  for  nourishment 
but  they  must  ruminate  on  mnemonics.  When  leis¬ 
ure  is  recovered  they’ll  be  hardened.  I’ll  be  incapable 
of  fresh  reasoning  in  the  contemplative  age  that  re¬ 
fuses  the  activity  of  creative  thought.  Perhaps  I’ll 
pack  my  books  and  put  off  for  those  islands.  No, 
I’d  be  sure  to  meet  someone  from  the  office,  since  the 
Pacific  chain  has  become  a  popular  old  age  resort. 
Better  find  a  place  as  deserted  as  Azof  or  Baikal 
where  stones  will  make  better  companions  than 
broken-down  men. 

A  train  roared  to  the  platform,  sending  stale  air 
to  beat  violent  waves  against  the  sides  of  the  tun¬ 
nel.  Daniel  entered  and  found  an  empty  corner.  He 
opened  his  romantic  book  and  read  until  his  station 
slid  into  sight,  the  car  windows  framing  it  for  a 
moment  before  they  shot  off  to  seek  other  impatient 
places  of  waiting. 

The  green  book  tight  under  his  arm  and  head  bent 
back,  he  walked  to  Riverside  Drive.  Cities  too 
luminous  to  receive  the  charm  of  starlight.  Those 
savages  knew  and  loved  the  stars  but  civilization  has 
lost  that  interest.  Must  get  out  my  old  star  chart 
this  summer.  Wonder  if  Amy  would  like  it.  Get 


i8o  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

new  thumb  tacks  for  Uranus  and  Mercury.  Father 
took  them  for  his  new  mown  hay  girl  calendar. 
Said  something  pretty  to  look  at  better  than  a  nebula 
100,000  light  years  away.  “Yes,  father,  but  doesn’t 
it  excite  you  to  think  of  the  hundreds  of  stars  in 
that  nebula  that  are  brighter  than  our  sun  by  ten 
thousand  times?”  “No,  and  I  don’t  believe  it. 
Neither  do  I  believe  our  Heavenly  Father  meant  for 
us  to  go  poking  our  noses  in  his  business.”  The 
night  I  told  him  what  we  see  doesn’t  exist.  If  my 
salary  envelope  hadn’t  been  in  my  pocket  he  would 
have  beaten  me  from  the  house.  Funny  how  a  few 
dollars  make  the  most  religious  churchgoers  com¬ 
promise  with  blasphemy.  No  religion  ever  made 
honest  men  of  its  followers.  Trust  a  Mohammedan 
as  little  as  a  Christian — a  Buddhist  no  farther  than 
a  Jew.  I’ll  take  the  atheists.  Usually  too  intelligent 
to  be  crooks. 

The  elevator  man  held  the  door  for  his  entrance 
with  a  respectful  arm.  “Anything  big  in  the 
papers?”  he  asked. 

“No,”  said  Daniel.  “Nothing  important.” 

“My  wife’s  cousin  used  to  be  in  your  line,”  the 
man  remarked.  “Said  it  was  interesting  work.  He 
had  a  big  district — used  to  use  the  telephone  till  he 
got  the  earache.” 

“Too  bad,”  said  Daniel,  pushing  his  way  out. 
“Thank  you.  Goodnight.”  He  let  himself  in  and 
walked  to  the  drawing  room  door.  At  the  card 
table  sat  Amy,  Elizabeth  Corning  and  two  men.  A 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  181 

tea  wagon  beside  them  held  bottles,  glasses  and  a 
bowl  of  ice.  The  air  was  serried  with  smoke.  He 
stood  there  watching  them,  unobserved  in  his  grow¬ 
ing  displeasure.  Why  does  she  turn  my  home  into 
a  night  club?  No  wonder  she  feels  ill  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  My  foot  down  on  this  nonsense.  Who  are 
these  men  ?  Why  has  she  worn  her  geranium  dress  ? 
I’ll  let  them  see  they  have  outstayed  their  welcome. 

“Good  evening/’  he  said  from  the  doorway.  Amy 
looked  up  and  nodded. 

“We’re  having  a  late  session,”  she  called.  “Your 
supper  is  ready  in  the  dining  room,  Daniel.”  He 
did  not  move  away  and  she  added,  “You  know  Mr. 
Harrington.  And  this  is  Mr.  Booth.”  The  men 
started  to  rise  and  she  pulled  them  down.  “Don’t 
stop,  please,  or  we’ll  never  get  this  rubber  played. 
Daniel  won’t  mind.  Lead’s  in  the  dummy,  Sydney.” 

“I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Amy.” 

She  did  not  look  up.  “Right-O.  As  soon  as  I’m 
dummy  I’ll  come  in.” 

He  turned  away  and  went  into  the  dining  room. 
Well,  if  that’s  what  they  call  Four  Hundred  man¬ 
ners  give  me  Newark.  As  much  courtesy  as  you 
find  in  a  business  office.  Like  that  night  at  Old 
Rufus’  house  when  they  all  sat  on  the  floor  shaking 
dice  like  niggers  and  no  one  troubled  to  introduce 
me. 

He  sat  down  and  served  himself  to  cold  meat  and 
salad.  What’s  this  Sydney  hanging  around  Amy 
for.  Sending  flowers  and  books  as  if  she  weren’t 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


182 

my  wife.  Where’s  his  wife?  Bet  he  isn’t  sending 
her  any  of  those  recuerdos  he  wrote  in  the  front  of 
her  Greek  Studies.  He  probably  thinks  he  looks  like 
a  Greek  study.  Handsome  enough  head  if  your 
taste  runs  to  moving  picture  actors.  Night  she 
called  him  Sydney-my-dear.  Buys  blue  hyacinths 
instead  of  a  haircut.  Takes  cream  in  his  tea. 
Cushion  and  cream  for  the  tailor’s  model.  Spats 
and  Latin  verse  for  the  damned  China  fancier. 
“Ming?  Oh,  that’s  rather  too  late,  you  know.” 
Queer  looking  dinner  coat,  he  has.  Not  made  here. 
From  some  sartorial  hot-house  in  London.  He’d 
better  look  for  another  roosting  place. 

Pushing  back  his  chair  he  went  to  the  sideboard 
and  lifted  a  carafe  of  claret  to  the  light.  Glows 
like  melted  rubies.  Might  as  well  drink  it  before  the 
catamite  finds  it.  Perhaps  he  likes  to  supplement 
his  cream  diet.  They’re  being  quiet  in  there.  I 
managed  to  put  a  little  damper  on  them.  Might 
look  in  through  the  curtains.  No,  they’d  see  them 
moving. 

He  went  to  the  wide  doorway,  sipping  from  his 
glass  and  attentive  to  the  murmured  cliches  of  the 
game  that  were  muffled  by  the  velvet  folds  before 
him.  Amy’s  metallic  voice  announced  “Our  game. 
How  were  the  honors?  You  should  have  led 
through  weakness  there.”  Sydney’s  languid  reply 
to  the  rallies  of  the  business-like  Miss  Corning  and 
the  undistinguished  intonations  of  the  bald  Mr. 
Booth  bore  me  into  finishing  this  wine.  I’ve  been 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


183 


gone  all  day  but  am  left  to  have  my  supper  alone. 
I’m  transformed  already  into  the  typical  American 
husband,  important  only  when  something’s  wanted 
that  costs  money.  She’s  too  tired  to  breakfast  with 
me  in  the  morning  and  too  busy  to  speak  to  me  at 
night.  “Right-O.  As  soon  as  I’m  dummy.”  I 
don’t  expect  a  rush  to  bring  my  slippers  but  I’m 
entitled  to  ordinary  interest. 

As  he  sat  down  the  curtains  parted  and  admitted 
Amy,  radiant  in  her  red  dress,  a  cigarette  between 
her  lips.  “Everything  all  right?”  she  asked.  “What 
did  you  want  to  tell  me?” 

“Sit  down  a  minute.  It’s  good  news.” 

She  removed  her  cigarette  and  gave  him  an  eager 
smile.  “I  can  guess.  They’ve  promoted  you.  With 
more  money.  How  wonderful!” 

He  set  his  mouth  more  firmly  into  place,  looked 
at  her  coldly  and  laid  down  his  fork.  “Sorry.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  money.” 

Amy  cooled.  Hand  on  hip,  she  walked  to  the  end 
of  the  table  and  drew  a  rose  from  the  spreading 
blue  bowl.  “I  ought  never  to  mention  money  to  you. 
It  always  makes  you  angry.”  She  smelled  the  rose 
and  stood  twirling  its  stem,  her  narrow  lower  lip 
caught  between  her  pointed  teeth.  Her  eyes,  turned 
away  from  his  annoyed  gaze,  were  shadowed  by  blue 
stains. 

“Come  here.”  He  spoke  without  sharpness  and 
she  moved  toward  him  slowly,  too  indifferent  to  be 
surprised  at  his  demand.  He  caught  at  her  hand 


1 84  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

and  pulled  her  closer.  “Amy,  are  you  well?  You 
look  ill  tonight.  Big  circles  under  your  eyes.  You 
never  used  to  have  them.” 

She  threw  him  a  defensive  glance  and  turned 
away.  “Oh,  yes.  I’ve  always  had  them.” 

“No,”  he  said  holding  her  wrist.  “I  remember 
the  day  I  lit  a  match  for  you — in  that  little  restau¬ 
rant  near  my  office — I  held  it  for  your  cigarette  and 
noticed  the  blue  under  your  eyes  was  so  faint  it 
might  have  been  the  shadow  from  your  veil.”  She 
did  not  answer  but  lifted  her  cigarette  and  inhaled 
slowly.  “Too  many  cigarettes.  You  drink  too  much. 
You  go  to  bed  too  late.  You  can’t  even  get  up  to 
breakfast  any  more.  If  you  can’t  take  care  of  your 
health,  I’ll  do  it  for  you.” 

Amy  lifted  her  eyes  and  revealed  them  startled 
sentinels.  “Don’t  worry  about  me,  silly.  I’m  quite 
all  right.  What  did  you  have  to  tell  me  ?” 

“Tonight  as  I  was  leaving  Horace  Bird  came  in 
and  asked  for  our  address.  Guess  why.” 

“I  can’t.” 

“He  said  his  wife  wants  to  call  on  you.  She 
knew  you  at  school.”  He  leaned  back,  smiling  and 
expectant.  “I  didn’t  invite  them  to  dinner.  I  didn’t 
know  if  that  would  be  the  proper - ” 

“Of  course  not.  Who  is  Mrs.  Bird?” 

“I  don’t  know.” 

Amy  drew  back  the  curtains.  “Elizabeth,  who 
married  Horace  Bird?  She  says  she  went  to  Miss 
Spence’s  with  me.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


185 

“Oh,  you  know.  That  dark  little  thing — queer 
eyes — baking  powder  family — pick  up  your  trick, 
Sydney — Alice — Alice  Middleton.” 

“Alice  Middleton!”  Amy  turned  and  confronted 
Daniel  with  the  name.  “But  she’s  impossible.  So¬ 
cial  climber  and  dull.  I  won’t  be  bored  with  her.” 

Daniel’s  pale  downy  eyebrows  shot  upward. 
“But — it’s  a  great  honor — I  mean  it  would  be  con¬ 
sidered — Mr.  Bird  never  mixes  in  the  office - ” 

“Honor!”  She  laced  her  long  fingers  together 
before  her  and  the  silk  of  her  dress  showed  between 
them  like  blood.  “She  would  like  to  meet  some  of 
the  people  I  know — that’s  the  honor.  You  don’t 
understand  these  things.” 

“But  it  would  help  me  in  the  office — you  see  that  ? 

Couldn’t  you  put  up  with - ” 

She  looked  at  him  and  the  life  went  out  of  her 
face,  leaving  a  static  sadness  on  her  eyes  and  mouth. 

“Of  course,  Daniel.  After  all,  it’s  very  little - ” 

She  broke  off  and  the  lines  deepened  under  her  eyes 
and  from  nose  to  lips  until  she  wore  a  faint  qualita¬ 
tive  resemblance  through  indicated  moulding  to  a 
Melpomene  mask.  She  lifted  her  head  as  if  it  were 
too  heavy  for  her  abating  strength  and  touched  him 
with  a  look  of  pain  and  regret.  The  intensity  of  her 
eyes  and  her  sudden  weakness  alarmed  him.  He 
put  out  his  hand  and  as  he  moved  Sydney’s  voice 
called  her  name.  Her  muscles  responded  and  her 
body  became  taut.  She  swept  aside  the  curtains  and 
called,  “Ready  for  me?  Who  won?” 


i86 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Daniel  jumped  up.  He  followed  her  into  the 
drawing  room,  eyes  on  her  steady  shoulders  and 
clicking  red  heels.  As  she  sat  down  he  reached  the 
table,  indifferent  to  the  inquiry  Miss  Corning  and 
Sydney  turned  on  his  approach.  He  leaned  down 
to  Amy’s  naked  shoulder  and  spoke  in  a  quiet  tone. 
“I  think  you’ve  played  enough  for  tonight,”  he 
said.  “You  aren’t  feeling  well  and  should  go  to 
bed.” 

No  one  moved.  The  men  sat  with  eyes  fastened 
to  the  cards.  Amy  called  out  a  smile  at  last.  “Are 
you  playing  the  masterful  husband  with  me?”  she 
said.  “How  amusing!” 

Elizabeth  Corning  stood  up.  “I  think  he’s  right, 
Amy,”  she  said  in  her  brittle  voice.  “You  look  quite 
ill,  my  dear.  Let’s  stop  and  save  the  score  for  next 
time.”  She  moved  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  with  a  nod  to  Mr.  Booth. 

Amy  looked  at  Sydney.  “Do  you  mind?  And 
you,  Harry?  It  was  about  even  anyway,  I  think.” 
Her  long  fingers  gathered  the  cards.  Both  men 
stirred  and  prepared  to  rise.  Daniel  stood  awk¬ 
wardly  at  the  edge  of  the  table,  embarrassed  by  his 
facile  victory. 

“Goodnight,”  he  said.  “I’ll  go  finish  my  supper.” 
He  offered  his  hand  to  Mr.  Booth  who  jumped  up 
and  shook  it  with  brief  boredom.  Sydney  pulled 
himself  to  his  feet  with  a  long  graceful  motion. 

“Goodnight,”  he  drawled.  He  surveyed  Daniel 
with  deliberately  unconcealed  amusement  and  an  air 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


187 


of  secret  triumph.  Daniel  wilted  under  his  satirical 
mocking  eyes.  He  muttered  “Goodnight”  and  went 
back  quickly  into  the  dining  room.  From  the  shelter 
of  the  curtains  he  saw  Mr.  Booth’s  head  shining 
under  the  light  as  he  talked  at  the  door  to  Elizabeth 
Corning.  Arranging  the  velvet  hangings  so  that 
the  opening  framed  the  figures  of  Amy  and  Sydney, 
he  watched  their  faces  turning  to  each  other  with 
eagerness  and  the  meeting  of  their  eyes  and  hands. 
Then  Sydiney  lifted  her  wrist  to  his  lips  and  kissed 
it  slowly. 

“A  demain,”  he  said.  They  separated  and  Daniel 
listened  to  the  murmur  of  words  in  the  hall  until 
the  outer  door  closed.  He  was  at  the  table  when 
Amy  returned. 

“Haven’t  you  finished  yet?”  she  said.  Her  face 
had  faded  above  her  cardinal  dress  and  her  eyes 
were  weary  and  indifferent. 

He  studied  her,  sitting  back  from  the  table  with 
folded  arms.  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  speak? 
Frankness  better  than  wounded  silences.  “Amy,” 

he  said,  “Amy,  I - ”  He  paused  and  her  attention 

wavered  and  was  gone.  She  yawned.  “You  like 
Mr.  Harrington,  don’t  you?”  he  said  abruptly. 

Her  mouth  closed.  She  looked  at  him,  nodding 
her  head.  “Yes.  Very  much.” 

“And  his  wife.  Do  you  like  her  too?” 

Amy  lifted  her  shoulders.  “Well,  she  is  older. 
She  doesn’t  fit  in  exactly.  She  has  her  own  friends.” 

He  leaned  forward.  “Do  you  think  you  should 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


1 88 

see  so  much  of  him  now  you’re  married?  You  do 
see  him  often,  don’t  you?” 

His  serious  interest  was  evident.  As  if  to  ward 
it  off  she  took  a  lighter  tone.  “We  have  tea  some¬ 
times — or  go  to  the  theatre.  We  like  the  same  sort 

of  things — the  exchange  of  ideas - ”  She  gave 

him  a  challenging  look  that  released  a  hidden  hos¬ 
tility.  “Surely  you  don’t  mind?” 

He  considered  this,  frowning  at  her  from  under 
bent  eyebrows.  Better  be  careful  how  I  answer. 
It  would  be  ridiculous  for  her  to  get  the  idea  I’m 
jealous.  Men  like  that  always  kiss  women’s  hands. 
They  like  to  ape  European  customs.  Often  saw  it 
in  France.  Doesn’t  mean  anything.  “No,  I  don’t 
mind.  He’s  not  a  type  of  man  I  admire  but  if  he’s 
a  friend  of  yours,  go  ahead.  But  I  wouldn’t  run  it 
into  the  ground  if  I  were  you.” 

“Run  what  into  the  ground?” 

“Seeing  him,  I  mean.” 

She  smiled.  “Oh,  of  course.  There  won’t  be 
much  chance  now.  I’m  going  to  Boston  next  week 
to  see  mamma.  She’s  going  to  help  me  about  my 
summer  things.” 

He  stared.  “You’re  going  to  Boston?” 

“Only  for  a  fortnight.  When  I  come  back  we’ll 
go  away  for  your  holiday.”  She  stretched  her  arms 
and  turned  away.  “I’m  quite  exhausted.  I  must 
sleep.” 

He  watched  her  trail  from  the  room,  swaying 
slightly  from  side  to  side,  her  usual  movements  ex- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  189 

aggerated  by  fatigue.  He  got  up  and  put  out  the 
lights,  guided  to  the  hall  by  the  light  outside.  Un¬ 
dressing  in  the  brown  and  yellow  bedroom,  he 
whistled  between  his  teeth  and  frowned.  What  did 
she  mean  about  getting  summer  things?  Sounds 
like  spending  more  money.  Can’t  have  that.  Better 
tell  her  so  before  she  involves  me  with  her  mother. 
I’ll  have  to  settle  it  before  she  turns  my  inattention 
into  a  promise. 

Tieing  the  belt  of  his  dressing  gown,  he  went  to 
knock  at  Amy’s  door.  She  had  taken  off  the  red 
dress  and  it  lay  on  a  chair,  emptied  and  inexpressive 
except  for  its  singing  color.  She  was  sitting  before 
a  mirror  brushing  out  her  mantle  of  hair  with  hands 
that  moved  wearily. 

“I  can’t  do  one  hundred  strokes  tonight,”  she 
said.  “I’m  too  tired.” 

He  went  to  her  side  and  took  the  brush  from  her 
fingers.  “Here,”  he  said.  “Let  me.” 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  “It’s  a  great  nuis¬ 
ance,”  she  said.  “You’ll  be  bored.” 

Laughing,  he  gathered  up  her  hair  in  both  hands. 
“No.  I  love  to  touch  your  hair.  It’s  alive.  I  often 
watch  the  lights  in  it  while  you’re  talking.”  She  did 
not  answer  and  he  saw  her  face  reflected  in  the 
glass.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  she  was  not  listen¬ 
ing.  “Amy,  go  to  bed  at  once.  You’re  falling 
asleep.  Here  now.”  He  picked  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  held  her  drooping  against  his  shoulder.  “I’ll 
undress  you.”  He  led  her  to  the  bed  and  pressed 


190 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


her  into  the  pillows  where  she  lay  motionless  and 
limp.  His  spatulate  fingers  untied  the  ribbon  of 
the  only  garment  she  wore  and  pulled  it  from  her 
shoulders  to  the  waist  where  it  lay  folded,  a  thin 
pink  veil.  His  eyes  moved  over  her.  She’s  changed 
in  some  subtle  way.  Marriage.  They  say  it  changes 
women.  Why?  I  don’t  know.  They’re  more  sen¬ 
sitive  than  men  perhaps.  But  not  to  the  cold.  I’d 
have  pneumonia  if  I  wore  only  that  transparent 
whatever-it-is  and  a  dress. 

He  bent  over  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  fore¬ 
head.  “Amy — dearest — let  me  put  you  into  bed. 
I’ll  stay  and  rub  your  temples.  May  I  ?” 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  made  a  movement  to 
cover  her  body.  “Oh,  no,  Daniel.  I’m  too  tired. 
Don’t  worry  about  me.  I’ll  be  quite  all  right.”  She 
sat  up  and  reached  to  the  pillow  for  her  night  dress. 
He  watched  her  draw  it  over  her  head  with  a  swift 
enclosing  gesture.  “I  won’t  get  up  in  the  morning, 
I  think.  But  come  and  speak  to  me  before  you  go.” 

Looking  down  on  her,  he  stood  breathing  the 
warm  air  that  rose,  perfumed,  from  her  flesh.  “I 
don’t  like  to  have  you  go  to  Boston,  I  can’t  think 
of  not  seeing  you  for  two  weeks.  Is  it  necessary?” 

“Yes.  My  summer  clothes.  I  have  a  little  seam¬ 
stress  there  who  does  the  simpler  things — very  clever 

_ >> 

“Amy!”  Now  for  it.  Must  be  severe  for  my 
own  sake.  She  knows  what’s  coming.  Her  eyes 
have  taken  the  defensive.  “You  mustn’t  spend  any 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


191 

more  money  for  a  long  time.  Get  along  with  the 
clothes  you  already  have.  You  have  trunks  in  there 
full  of  clothes.” 

She  made  an  exasperated  gesture.  “You  know 
nothing  about  it.  Most  of  my  things  are  two  years 
old.  I  can’t  possibly  wear  them.” 

“But  you  don’t  have  to  dress  like  a  queen  of 
fashion.  You’re  not  in  society  now.  What  differ¬ 
ence  does  it  make  ?” 

She  looked  at  him  stiffly,  lips  curled  and  angry. 
He  met  her  resistance  with  determined  cold  eyes, 
armed  against  her  will.  “Why  do  you  save  money, 
Daniel  ?  A  man  with  your  future — a  career  as  cer¬ 
tain  as  if  it  were  locked  in  a  safe !” 

“What  makes  you  think  I  save  money  ?” 

“It’s  common  sense.  Everyone  knows  you  have 
a  big  salary.  We  don’t  spend  it  all.” 

His  nostrils  dilated  above  white  lips.  “Then 
everybody  is  mistaken.  My  salary  just  about 
stretches  over  the  demands  made  on  it.”  He  put 
out  his  closed  hands  in  an  unaccustomed  effort  at 
physical  expression.  “By  God,  I  wish  I  knew  some¬ 
one  who  wasn’t  trying  to  get  money  out  of  me !” 

“Daniel !”  She  stumbled  up  from  bed  and  stood 
rebuking  him  with  devastating  eyes.  “What  a  vul¬ 
gar — what  an  impossibly  vulgar - !”  She  was 

breathing  quickly,  stung  out  of  coherency.  “You 
can’t  say  things  like — go  out  of  my  room !” 

Turned  to  stone  by  her  outbreak,  he  watched  the 
twitching  muscles  of  her  face.  “Vulgar,  impossibly 


192 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


vulgar.”  What  did  I  say?  That  I  wish  I  knew 
someone  who  didn’t  want  my  money.  No.  I  said 
I  wish  I  knew  someone  who  wasn’t  trying  to  get 
money  out  of  me.  That  was  crude.  But  she’s 
hypersensitive.  I’ll  be  more  careful.  Same  thing  at 
Atlantic  City  about  the  bracelet  and  she  hardly  ever 
wears  it  after  all.  She’s  crying.  Shall  I  conciliate? 
Better  try.  “I’m  sorry  I  spoke  like  that,”  he  began. 
“Please  forgive  me.  I’ve  sufferd  so  much  through 
money - ” 

She  turned  her  back  and  he  watched  her  bare 
shoulders  moving  with  the  violence  of  her  sobs. 
“Please  go,”  she  said  in  a  choked  voice. 

“Not  until  you  forgive  me.”  My  tone  solemn  and 
subdued.  She’ll  like  that  and  read  into  it  my  devo¬ 
tion  and  repentance.  I  can’t  leave  her  like  this, 
weeping  and  hating  me.  I  must  kiss  her.  Her 
mouth  swollen  as  it  was  the  night  here  when  she 
responded  to  love  for  the  first  time.  “Amy - ” 

He  moved  toward  her  and  hearing  his  step  she 
turned  on  him,  her  face  flushed  and  corroded  by 
tears.  “Will  you  go  ?”  she  cried.  He  did  not  move 
but  stood  looking  at  her  with  pleading  eyes.  After 
a  moment's  pause  in  which  she  seemed  to  be  sum¬ 
moning  in  vain  the  will  to  control  her  anger,  she 
rushed  at  him  and  began  pushing  him  toward  the 
door  that  stood  open  at  his  back.  He  did  not  re¬ 
sist  but  accepted  from  surprise  the  motion  she  com¬ 
municated  to  him.  Thus,  walking  backward,  he  was 
impelled  over  the  threshold  and  into  the  hall,  where 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


193 


he  stopped  and  watched  the  door  swing  forward  at 
his  face.  It  slammed  shut  and  the  key  turned  in 
the  lock  with  a  vicious  little  click  of  finality. 

Leaning  against  the  door  he  listened.  Lve  won 
a  sad  victory.  But  if  it  keeps  her  from  going  to 
Boston  next  week  it  was  worth  it.  Never  would 
have  thought  she  had  such  a  temper.  Red  hair,  I 
suppose.  Red  hair,  red  temper.  She’s  moving  about 
the  room.  Opening  the  dresser  drawers.  What  is 
she  looking  for?  Can’t  see.  Key  in  the  way.  I’d 
better  go  to  bed.  She’ll  be  all  right  in  the  morning. 

He  went  into  the  drawing  room  and  poured  out  a 
drink  of  whiskey  from  the  bottle  on  the  tea  wagon. 
Probably  that  cream-lapper  would  know  better  how 
to  manage  her.  He’d  bow  in  his  London  coat  and 
kiss  her  hand.  “Anything  your  heart  desires,  my 
fair  one.”  Palaver  is  what  wins  women.  Gallant 
lies  and  dancing-teacher  manners.  Can’t  be  direct 
and  simple  with  them.  Cajolery  and  smirks,  flum¬ 
mery  and  general  buncombe. 

In  the  hall  he  paused  again  by  her  door  and 
knocked.  “Amy!  Won’t  you  say  goodnight?” 
She’s  still  stirring  things  about.  What  can  she  be 
looking  for  at  this  hour  ? 

Her  voice,  husky  and  dry,  reached  him,  speaking 
a  calm  “Goodnight.” 

“Don’t  you  want  to  go  to  bed  now?”  he  went 
on.  “You’ll  be  sick  if  you  don’t  get  more  sleep.” 
He  waited,  ear  against  the  wood,  through  a  long 
pause  for  her  reply,  listening  to  the  inexplicable 


194  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

sounds  of  her  activities.  “Amy,  what  are  you  do¬ 
ing  ?” 

“Packing  my  bags/’  she  answered.  “I’m  going 
to  Boston  in  the  morning.”  Her  tone  was  dogmatic, 
impervious  to  argument,  and  its  indicative  hardness 
repelled  him  like  a  blow.  He  drew  back  from  the 
door  and  stared  with  enmity  at  the  panelling  that 
protected  her  from  his  presence.  Then  thrusting 
his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  dressing  robe,  he 
strode  down  the  corridor  and  slammed  himself  into 
the  brown  and  yellow  room. 


XI 


Daniel  opened  the  door  and  drew  his  mother  into 
the  hall,  returning  her  clumsy  caress.  In  her 
weathered  dress  of  black  silk  with  its  frayed  lace 
collar  she  looked  frail  and  oppressed  by  the  weight 
of  all  her  dreary  years. 

“Well,  Dan.  I  got  here  all  right.  I  left  the 
dishes  and  wrapped  your  pa  up  in  his  chair.” 

“I’m  glad  to  see  you,  mother.” 

He  kissed  her  again  and  she  clung  to  him,  looking 
up  with  timid  eyes  that  were  filled  with  a  stagnant 
and  melancholy  love.  Her  hat  sitting  loosely  on  her 
head  had  released  wisps  of  gray  hair  which  hung  in 
a  fringe  on  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  spoke  in  a 
whisper,  glancing  beyond  him.  “Is  she  in  there?” 

He  caught  her  shrunken  waist  in  his  arm  and  led 
her  to  the  drawing  room.  “No.  She’s  still  in  Bos¬ 
ton.  I  thought  she’d  be  back  when  I  wrote  you 

_ >> 

Mrs.  Geer  made  a  clicking  sound  of  disappoint¬ 
ment.  “Now  that’s  too  bad.  In  Boston,  is  she? 
Was  her  ma  taken  sick?” 

“No.  She’s  just  visiting.”  He  twisted  away  from 
the  questions  in  her  eyes,  pushing  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets  and  rattling  his  keys. 


i95 


196  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

She  did  not  release  him  from  her  gaze  but  con¬ 
sidered  his  words  gravely.  “Too  bad.  They’re  all 
waiting  to  hear  about  your  wife.  Well - ” 

He  interrupted  her.  “I’m  sorry  Amy’s  not  here, 
mother.  She  expected  to  be  back  last  week.  Some¬ 
thing  came  up,  I  suppose.”  He  began  to  speak 
rapidly,  avoiding  her  flaccid  troubled  face.  “Take 
off  your  hat.  Sit  down  here — this  chair.  Now  tell 
me  about  father  and  Ruth.  Has  it  been  hot  in 
Newark?  You’re  going  to  come  out  to  dinner  with 
me  tonight  and  then  I’ll  put  you  on  a  train.” 

Studying  his  worn  harried  face  she  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  raising  both  stiff  arms, 
lifted  off  her  hat.  “I  can’t  stay  long.  Pa’s  all 
alone  and  Ruthie  couldn’t  get  over  because  Junior’s 
got  a  rash  and  they’re  afraid  of  the  measles.  If 

the  other  two  catch  it — in  her  condition - !  A 

house  full  of  sick  children  makes  a  heap  of  work. 
You  and  Ruthie  come  down  the  same  week  with 
measles  and  oh  me,  oh  my,  what  a  time  I  had!” 
She  sighed  and  her  eyes  began  to  wander  about  the 
room,  in  a  careful  inventory  of  furniture,  rugs, 
draperies.  .  .  . 

Daniel  waited.  She’s  preparing  a  verbal  recon¬ 
struction  of  my  apartment  for  her  Newark  audience. 
I  hope  she’ll  defend  Amy’s  absence  against  the  ma¬ 
levolence  of  father  and  Andrew.  Poor  mother! 
Ageing,  ageing.  Her  lined  face  lacks  the  happy 
kindly  crinkles  of  old  age  and  the  chronicle  of  her 
joyless  life  runs  through  my  memory.  She,  too, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


197 


had  her  secret  things — her  penetralia.  That  sun¬ 
dial  inscription.  “Each  hour  wounds;  the  last  one 
kills.”  No  one  to  oil  her  wounds  or  comfort  her 
at  youth’s  passing.  Not  father.  Nor  I.  Perhaps 
Ruth - 

“You  ain’t  looking  well,”  his  mother  said  sud¬ 
denly.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  grasped  his 
fingers,  pulling  at  them  to  compel  his  eyes  down  to 
hers.  “You’re  kind  of  peaked.” 

He  gave  her  a  weak  smile  of  reassurance  and  with¬ 
drew  his  hand.  “What  do  you  think  of  my  place? 
We  rented  it  furnished,  you  know.  And  the  owner 
of  the  paper  and  his  wife  are  coming  to  call — as 

soon  as  Amy - ”  He  moved  across  the  room 

slowly  and  fell  to  gazing  at  the  wall. 

She  followed,  her  floating  skirt  touching  the  floor 
at  each  step.  “Danny.”  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  “You  ain’t  happy.  I  could  see  it  the  minute 
I  walked  in  the  front  door.  Is  it  your  wife,  sonny?” 
A  maternal  apprehension  tightened  the  muscles  of 
her  face  and  her  pale  blue  eyes  swelled  with  tears 
as  they  strained  at  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  “Would  you  like  a  cup  of 
tea?  I  let  the  maid  go  out  this  afternoon  but  I  can 
make  it.” 

Her  shiny  knotted  hand  remained  on  his,  unde¬ 
ceived.  “Have  you  got  a  hired  girl  ?” 

“Oh,  yes,  mother.  In  a  large  apartment  like  this 
— it  was  different  in  Eighty-First  Street.” 

“Now,  Dan,  this  ain’t  as  large  as  a  house  after 


198  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

all.  When  we  had  the  old  place  outside  Newark,  I 
did  all  my  own  work — even  the  washing.” 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  hand  over  his — the  dis¬ 
torted  fingers — shapeless  nails -  “It’s  not  the 

same  thing.  Amy’s  been  brought  up  in  a  different 
way.  But  come  see  the  other  rooms.”  He  led  her 
through  the  hall.  “This  is  mine.  Windows  on  the 
court.  It’s  always  quiet  at  night.”  He  watched  her 
move  about,  bending  to  look  at  the  chairs  and  touch¬ 
ing  the  yellow  silk  of  the  coverlet.  The  monstrous 
ingratitude  in  human  nature.  In  loving  unquestion¬ 
ing  labor  she  lived,  a  menial  in  my  father’s  house, 
unpaid,  unpraised,  set  aside  at  conferences.  And  I 
shrink  from  the  signs  of  her  service,  dreading  Amy’s 
eyes  at  the  inevitable  meeting,  sparing  myself  today 
the  glances  of  a  servant. 

Mrs.  Geer,  now  at  the  dressing  table,  stroked  the 
glass  top.  “What’s  this  for?  I  s’pose  to  make  the 
wood  look  shiny.  That’s  a  good  idea.  Your  wall 
paper  is  real  pretty,  Dan.”  She  paused  and  poked 
his  brushes.  “Where  are  her  things?  Did  she  take 
them  with  her  ?” 

“In  the  next  room.  I’ll  show  you — it’s  all  pink 
and  white.  Say,  mother,  there’s  her  picture  on  the 

wall.  It’ll  give  you  an  idea - ”  He  crossed  the 

Mexican  rug  and  took  down  a  framed  photograph. 
“She  has  red  hair — a  beautiful  color.” 

She  took  the  picture  from  his  hands  with  an  eager 
jerky  gesture  and  went  to  the  window.  Her  chin 
moved  up  and  down  as  she  scrutinized  the  face 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


199 

under  the  nuances  of  light  that  shone  on  the  glass. 
Following,  he  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

“It  was  taken  before  I  knew  her,”  he  said.  They 
stood  gazing  at  the  oval  face,  receiving  its  smile 
that  was  tainted  with  mockery.  The  pointed  teeth, 
contrasting  high  lights  of  the  sepia  print,  gleamed 
and  gave  an  exaggerated,  laniary  appearance  to  the 
riveted  smile.  He  sighed,  leaning  toward  his  mother 
until  his  cheek  touched  her  shoulder.  There’s  the 
familiar  smell  of  her  unaired  clothes  closet.  And 
Amy’s  garden  scents  still  over  my  room.  Even  now 
those  eyes  seem  virginal  to  me  and  I  may  leave  them 
without  guilt  for  the  sweet  column  of  her  neck, 
whiter  than  Greece.  Was  this  worn  and  musty 
woman  by  my  side  once  an  instrument  of  love? 
Blushing  at  father’s  clumsy  embrace.  Then  came 
maternity  and  the  crushing  process  and  me  and  my 
reactions.  Mother  love  and  father  hate.  Freud’s 
CEdipus  Rex  horror.  May  have  been  natural  in  the 
beginning  of  things.  Taking  advantage  of  propin¬ 
quity  to  insure  propagation.  That  instinct  still  per¬ 
sists,  fastening  itself  on  a  few  individuals  whose 
lives  lie  on  them  like  a  doom  and  whose  libido  can¬ 
not  be  freed  from  the  image  of  their  mother. 
Father  hate  commoner.  Mine  was  a  mania. 
Wanted  to  kill.  Really  a  murderer  in  all  but  deed. 
Those  long  evenings  when  he  had  sent  me  to  bed.  I 
lay  planning  how  I  should  do  it,  carefully  building 
up  every  detail,  nursing  the  hate  that  motivated  all 
my  thoughts,  lustful  of  the  blow  I  visualized. 


200 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“There,  God  damn  you!”  I  said  it  over  and  over, 
accompanying  each  new  device  with  it.  One  blow 
was  never  enough.  I  rained  them  down  until  his 
skull  was  in  splinters.  Then  came  the  obliterations 
and  the  race  against  time.  I  hid  him  in  a  sack  with 
weights  and  sank  it  in  Corbin’s  pond.  Or  dug  a 
grave  in  the  daisy  field  through  a  moonless  night. 
Then  with  hands  nicely  washed  I  presented  myself 
at  the  breakfast  table  to  smile  at  mother,  “No,  I 
haven’t  seen  him.  Perhaps  he  went  to  town  early.” 

He  shifted  his  eyes  from  the  shabby  lines  of  his 
mother’s  profile.  She  sighed  and  spoke  in  a  subdued 
and  uncritical  tone.  “She  fixes  her  hair  real  stylish, 
don’t  she  ?” 

Daniel  turned  to  her  sharply.  “Mother !  Is  that 
the  only — but  don’t  you  think  she’s  beautiful?” 

Pursing  her  lips,  she  nodded  and  released  the 
frame.  “I  hope  her  heart’s  as  pretty  as  her  face,” 
she  said  and  seeing  the  disappointment  in  his  eyes, 
added,  “I’ll  love  her  when  I  see  her — if  she  makes 
my  boy  happy.”  She  set  back  her  shoulders  and 
watched  him  return  the  picture  to  its  nail,  following 
each  movement  with  brooding  eyes,  as  his  large 
shoulders  altered  the  shape  of  his  brown  coat  in 
stretching  out  his  arm.  She  went  slowly  to  his  dress¬ 
ing  table  and  laid  her  hands  on  his  brushes.  “Why 
have  you  got  different  rooms — you  and  her?” 

Smiling  nervously,  he  came  to  her  side  and  took 
her  arm.  “What  an  old-fashioned  mother  I  have! 
Married  people  don’t  have  the  same  room  any  more. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


201 


Besides  Amy  can’t  sleep  unless  she’s  alone.  She’s 
not  used  to  having - ” 

She  interrupted,  “Neither  was  I.  But  I  soon  got 
used  to  it.  And  before  long  you  was  there  in  your 
cradle  in  a  corner.  It  don’t  seem  human  to  have  a 
wall  between  man  and  wife.” 

He  looked  down  at  the  rug  in  silence.  It  must 
have  been  pleasant,  that  old-fashioned  custom.  I 
long  to  sink  into  sleep,  touching  her  hair  or  hand — 

to  awake  and  hear  her  breathing -  Modern 

honeymoons  are  based  on  reason  and  the  advice  of 
the  family  physician.  How  distant  are  the  orgies 
of  Eleusis,  now  sun-baked  and  strewn  with  stones — 
the  mysteries  of  Demeter  and  Persephone.  Why 
did  they  call  them  mysteries  ?  Everyone  knows  what 
will  happen  when  wine  flows  and  the  sexes  drink  to¬ 
gether  under  an  Attic  moon. 

“How  long  has  she  been  gone?”  His  mother  was 
peering  at  him  and  he  shook  ofT  his  abstraction. 

“Oh,  not  long.  About  three  weeks,”  he  said 
carelessly. 

“Why,  Dan !”  Her  voice  mounted  and  ended  on 
a  high,  plaintive  note.  “You  don’t  call  three  weeks 
long?  And  you  just  married?” 

“Perhaps,  normally,  I  should  think  so.  But  she 
hasn’t  been  well - ” 

Mrs.  Geer  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  and  turned 
him  about  to  face  her.  “Did  you  have  any  words 
when  she  went  away?” 

He  hung  his  head.  “No.” 


202 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“And  you’ve  written  often?” 

“I’m  too  busy  to  write  fancy  letters,  mother.  I 
sent  her  a  telegram  Friday  telling  her  to  come  back.” 
A  flush  rose  in  his  face  and  he  moved  uneasily  under 
her  hand  and  eyes. 

“Danny,”  she  said  slowly.  “I’m  afraid  this  is 
your  fault.” 

He  stepped  back  and  faced  her  across  the  rug. 
“Now,  mother,  I  won’t  have  you  putting  me  in  the 
wrong.  Amy  has  a  defect  that  I  must  correct.  Her 
family  never  taught  her  the  value  of  money.  If  I 
let  her  alone  she’d  run  me  into  debt.  I  spoke  to  her 
about  this  and  she — well,  she  didn’t  like  it.” 

His  mother,  stirred  from  her  torpid  existence, 
stood  against  him,  old  and  plain,  corroded  by  a  life 
of  baffled  gestures  toward  beauty  and  defective  ten¬ 
dernesses  of  mind.  Her  intuitional  penetration  into 
the  cause  of  his  suffering  lent  her  life  a  larger  cein- 
ture  and  the  sex  bond  with  her  unknown  daughter 
estranged  for  the  moment  her  husband  and  her  son. 
“I  didn’t  use  to  like  it  either,”  she  said.  “I  re¬ 
member  when  I  was  a  bride -  You’re  just  like 

your  pa  about  money.  You’re  a  good  boy  and  you’re 
just,  but  you  was  never  one  for  splurging  your 
extra  pennies  around.  Give  Ruthie  a  dime  and  she’d 
come  home  with  a  stick  of  candy  for  everybody. 
Yours  went  in  your  bank.” 

“Ma!”  Daniel’s  face  twisted  with  pain.  He  spoke 
in  a  shrill  voice  and  leaned  across  the  rug,  chin 
thrust  out  against  this  injustice.  “That  isn’t  fair! 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


203 


What  about  that  time  I  gave  you  all  Fd  saved  toward 
the  washing  machine?  And  the  summer  you  were 
sick.”  He  paused  to  recover  from  the  sense  of  being 
again  a  boy  of  fifteen,  pinned  under  the  authority  of 
the  paternal  roof  tree. 

“You  did,  Dan.  I’m  not  belittling  it.  But  I  know 
your  natural  bent  about  money.” 

He  stood  there  awkwardly,  humiliated  by  his 
puerile  temper,  ravaged  by  weeks  of  suffering, 
wounded  by  his  mother’s  lack  of  understanding  for 
his  ordered  ways.  His  arms  hung,  lifeless,  at  his 
sides  and  his  eyes  turned  their  pained  gaze  on  her 
eyes.  Silently  each  reproached  the  other.  Then  her 
expression  grew  steady  and  reflective. 

“Well,  Dan.  What  are  you  going  to  do?” 

“I  don’t  know.  She’s  angry.  Hasn’t  answered 
the  telegram.”  His  face  broke  and  whitened.  “What 
if  she  doesn’t  come  back?  She’s  so  high-strung  and 
proud.  I  feel  like  a  blundering — well,  peasant  is 
the  best  word.  Like  the  husband  in  the  Lady  of 
Lyons — remember?  You  took  Ruth  and  me  years 
ago — one  Saturday  afternoon  at  the  Opera  House 

_ >> 

Mrs.  Geer  was  not  listening.  With  arms  folded 
across  her  rounded  abdomen  she  watched  a  sparrow 
hop  along  the  window  sill,  poise  his  head  and  make 
off  with  a  straining  fluttering  of  short  wings.  “See 
here,  Dan.  How  far  is  it  to  Boston?” 

“Five  hours — or  six.” 

“That’s  easy,  Dan.  You  just  jump  on  a  train, 


204 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


make  it  up  and  bring  her  back  tomorrow  morning.” 

“She  wouldn’t  come — and  her  mother  would  back 
her  up.” 

“Never  mind  her  mother.  You  go  get  your  wife.” 
He  stared  at  her  doubtfully  and  she  give  him  a  nod 
of  encouragement.  “Do  what  I  tell  you,  Danny. 
You’ll  see.  Women  ain’t  changed  much,  I  guess, 
since  I  was  a  girl.” 

He  continued  to  stare  at  her.  His  eyes  brightened 
and  a  flush  spread  over  his  face,  blotting  out  the 
lines  traced  by  wakeful  nights.  Drawing  himself 
up,  he  fumbled  with  his  watch.  “Well — I  could 
make  the  five  o’clock  if  I  hurried.”  She  smiled  and 
nodded  again.  “I’d  better  take  a  bag,  I  suppose.” 

She  watched  him  move  to  the  dresser  and  pull 
open  the  drawers,  selecting  collars,  pyjamas,  and  a 
shirt  to  toss  over  at  the  bed.  “Those  old  night 
shirts — they’re  too  good  to  use  for  cleaning  rags. 
Fve  got  them  put  by,  Dan,  in  case — : — ” 

“Give  them  to  the  heathen,  mother.” 

“Indeed  I  won’t.”  She  shifted  her  weight  back 
and  leaned  against  the  dresser.  “Say,  Dan,  I  was 
thinking - ” 

He  dragged  a  valise  from  under  the  bed.  “Yes, 
mother  ?” 

“Are  you  going  to  take  one  of  those  taxicabs  to 
the  station?” 

“I’ll  have  to  if  I’m  to  make  that  train.  Let’s  see. 
I’d  better  telephone  the  office - ” 

She  looked  at  him  timidly.  “Could  I  ride  to  the 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


205 


station  with  you?  Fve  never  had  a  ride  in  a  taxi¬ 
cab.  Then  I  could  take  a  trolley  back  to  the  tube.” 

He  looked  up  from  his  packing  blankly.  “You’ve 

never  had  a  ride  in — you’ve  never - ”  He  gazed 

at  her  with  astonishment  and  his  obedient  memory 
began  to  review  her  life  in  a  succession  of  pictures, 
like  a  disjointed  cinema  reel.  Ironing  in  a  cotton 
dress,  darned  at  the  armholes  .  .  .  walking,  awk¬ 
wardly  gaited,  to  church  in  her  black,  turned-over 
dress  .  .  .  dusting  off  the  parlor  table  with  its 
dried  pampas-grass  and  the  shells  from  which  I 
learned  the  sound  of  the  sea  .  .  .  cooking  that  day 
she  was  sobbing  and  wouldn’t  tell  me  why,  her  hair 
falling  as  now  in  a  fringe  on  her  hot  neck  .  .  .  brib¬ 
ing  me  with  three  new  pennies  to  turn  the  ice-cream 
freezer  the  time  Cousin  Carrie’s  friends  came  from 
Orange  .  .  .  tender-minded  and  sad,  bent  over  her 
sewing  basket  under  the  oil  lamp,  white  and  nodding, 
dreaming  of  her  pillows - 

He  leaned  over  and  snapped  the  nickel  fastenings 
into  place.  “Well  now,  mother — that’s  a  good  idea,” 
he  said.  “Get  ready  and  we’ll  start.”  He  heard  her 
stumping  down  the  hall  to  the  drawing  room - 

“My  hat,  Dan.” 

He  stood  staring  at  the  window.  Woman’s  intui¬ 
tion.  Mother  knows  Amy  will  like  my  coming  for 
her,  eager  to  draw  together  the  edges  of  our  quar¬ 
rel.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  fetching  her. 
Yet  I  could  have  spared  myself  those  torments  by 
the  simple  action  of  boarding  a  train.  I’ll  court  her 


206 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


humbly  and  kiss  her  hand  like  Sydney.  Perhaps 
she  will  love  me  again  as  she  did  our  first  night  here. 
I’ll  make  our  life  together  as  richly  patterned  as  the 
floor  of  an  old  Roman  church  paved  with  colored 
fragments  from  pagan  temples  that  knew  pagan  love 
before  the  puritans  captured  it.  They  have  har¬ 
nessed  it  now  in  legal  yoke,  attached  admonitory 
weights,  and  covered  all  with  dull  gray  canvas  for 
the  drive  to  a  hard  whitewashed  church. 

“Danny!”  Mrs.  Geer  stood  in  the  door,  antici¬ 
pation  brightening  her  cheeks.  “Ain’t  you  coming? 
What  are  you  mooning  in  here  for  when  you’ve  got 
a  train  to  catch?” 

He  leaped  toward  her,  swinging  his  valise,  and 
caught  her  about  the  waist.  “You’re  right,  mother. 
Mooning  is  no  good.  It’s  action  that  counts,  isn’t 
it?”  He  kissed  her  and  pulled  her  down  the  hall. 

As  she  went  along  she  said  in  delighted  protest. 
“Now,  Danny,  not  so  fast,  well,  Dan,  I  must  say 

_ ft 


XII 


The  train  was  late.  At  half-past  ten  it  moved 
heavily  out  of  Providence.  Daniel  sitting  back 
among  folded  newspapers  listened  to  the  panting  of 
the  engine  and  dried  his  sweating  forehead.  The 
unnatural  lights  above  his  head  emphasized  the  fa¬ 
tigue  that  had  collected  under  his  eyes  and  in  the 
planes  of  flesh  about  his  mouth.  He  replaced  his 
handkerchief  and  stared  out  of  the  window.  I  was 
six  when  I  first  watched  lights  by  night  from  a 
window  like  this,  square  and  sooty.  Romance  be¬ 
gan  for  me  on  a  train,  going  with  father  to  Mauch 
Chunk  on  mining  business  for  Uncle  Larry.  Each 
group  of  lanterns  marked  a  strange  land  and  I 
thought  of  Gulliver.  Flames  from  rocks,  painted  on 
the  night.  Smoke  scented  with  mystery.  And 
clanging  sounds  that  played  on  my  spine.  Not 
Persia,  not  Thibet,  could  give  me  that  stimulation 
now,  for  after  the  twelfth  year  the  world  is  too 
familiar  and  imagination  withers  on  a  dry  stalk. 
That  curious  sensation,  lost  before  adolescence,  of 
being  able  to  leave  my  body,  to  hang  above  it,  fright¬ 
ened  at  its  unweighted  freedom,  without  nerve  sen¬ 
sation.  This  usually  happened  in  the  sunshine  and 


207 


208 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


quiet  and  would  have  been  pleasant  had  it  not  been 
for  the  fear — the  same  fear  one  feels  in  trying  to 
conceive  infinity.  The  sunshine  lost  its  color  and 
turned  to  moonlight.  While  without  weight,  I  was 
nevertheless  fixed  to  a  spot  just  above  my  body.  I 
always  knew  when  this  was  about  to  happen  by  a 
foreboding  and  the  rush  of  my  inner  self  to  a  great 
withdrawal.  Sometimes  I  stopped  it  by  running 
down  the  lawn  but  oftener  I  was  as  paralysed  as  a 
man  who  sees  an  express  train  bearing  down  fifteen 
feet  away.  I  was  glad  to  outgrow  this  disturbing 
experience  and  never  spoke  of  it  to  anyone,  having 
learned  to  hide  thoughts  and  emotions  not  common 
to  all.  Astonishment,  especially,  was  frowned  upon, 
so  that  when  I  saw  the  ocean  for  the  first  time  I 
was  seized  with  a  trembling  embarrassment  and 
shrugged  my  shoulders,  guarding  delight  and  awe 
for  a  moment  when  I  could  be  alone  and  free  of  the 
obligation  to  look  bored  at  everything  new. 

The  man  across  the  aisle  leaned  over  and  Daniel 
turned  with  irritation  to  view  puffed  cheeks  and  a 
bristling  moustache.  “Can  I  have  a  look  at  your 
papers,  pal?” 

Daniel  hesitated,  then  gathered  them  up.  “Here 
you  are.” 

“Thanks.”  He  smiled  with  small  sly  eyes.  “A 
feller  tells  me  a  freight  wreck  is  holding  us  back.” 

Daniel  grunted.  He  closed  his  eyes,  pretending 
to  sleep  until  the  train  rolled  into  the  smoke  of  the 
Back  Bay  station. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


209 


He  drove  up  Commonwealth  Avenue  at  midnight, 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  neat  rows  of  trees  that 
swayed  against  the  stars.  They  waved  their  branches 
at  Amy's  yearly  departures  for  Europe  and  beckoned 
her  home  again  with  stiff,  bare  fingers,  missing  the 
bright  beauty  that  waxed  with  the  seasons.  My 
blood  warms  to  the  trees  that  saw  her  youth  push¬ 
ing  up  like  themselves  from  nourishing  soil.  A 
materialist  in  love.  Bob  would  rejoice  at  my  trans¬ 
formation  into  a  sentimentalist,  the  less  controlled 
because  unstale  with  habits  of  romantic  thought. 
This  is  a  sedate  and  proper  street,  its  pavement  de¬ 
corously  in  repair,  scornful  of  modern  motor  traffic, 
happy  to  receive  occasionally  the  smart  beat  of  hoofs, 
remembering  Atheneum  days  when  caste  was  ob¬ 
served  and  the  boots  of  Celtic  politicians  had  not  yet 
polluted  the  drawing  rooms  of  Beacon  Hill.  We're 
stopping.  This  must  be  the  house.  Now  for  the 
apparition  from  a  taxi  of  the  unexpected  husband 
in  seach  of  forgiveness. 

Mrs.  Fiske  opened  the  door,  gasping  a  little  as 
she  greeted  him  and  giving  him  her  hand  in  an  in¬ 
timate  pressure.  “It’s  nice  to  see  you  here,  Daniel.  I 
thought  you  might  be  coming  one  of  these  days." 
She  smiled  at  him  with  bright  eyes  and  whispering, 
“Be  gentle,"  led  him  into  the  drawing  room.  “Amy, 
dear,  here’s  your  husband." 

Amy  was  lying  under  a  lamp  on  a  wide  couch 
between  the  windows  and  he  went  to  her  quickly. 
“You  look  ill.  Are  you  sorry  to  see  me?  I  thought 


210 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


I’d — ”  He  stopped  as  he  became  aware  of  a  dark 
figure  in  the  shadows,  an  harmonious  head  bent 
forward  in  solicitude.  His  face  settled  into  stern 
lines  as  he  kissed  her  cheek  and  took  a  hand  colder 
than  his  own,  scented  with  the  frangipani  of  red 
jasmine. 

‘‘Well,  Daniel,”  Amy  said.  Her  voice  sounded 
choked  and  apprehensive. 

“I  see  I  should  have  telegraphed,”  he  said  formally 
and  turned  to  the  man  standing  behind  him.  “How 
are  you,  Mr.  Harrington?” 

Sydney  muttered  something  and  backed  away  in 
confusion.  Daniel  watched  his  retreat  before  he 
turned  to  Amy.  “Pack  tonight.  We’re  leaving  on 
the  early  train  tomorrow,”  he  said  authoritatively. 

There  was  a  silence.  Behind  him  Mrs.  Fiske  and 
Sydney;  before  him  Amy’s  white  startled  face,  her 
encircled  eyes  dilated  and  defenseless.  She  flung  up 
one  long  hand  against  the  green  chiffon  of  her 
dress  and  drew  a  trembling  breath.  “No,”  she  said. 
“I’m  not  ready  to  go  back  to  New  York.  I — I’m 
not  well.” 

“So  I  see,”  replied  Daniel.  “I’m  going  to  take 
you  to  a  doctor  as  soon  as  we  get  home.” 

“No,”  said  Amy.  “No.”  Her  strength  seemed 
to  drain  out  of  her  narrow  body  and  she  sank  down 
and  leaned  her  head  forward  on  her  hand,  leaving 
him  her  burning  hair  to  gaze  upon  with  eyes  grown 
puzzled  in  the  presence  of  an  estranging  mystery. 
He  saw  Mrs.  Fiske’s  face  float  over  his  shoulder. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


211 


“I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Daniel.”  She  touched 
his  arm  and  drew  him  across  the  room.  “Let’s 
go  into  the  library,”  she  said.  He  followed  her, 
seeing  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  Sydney’s  swift 
movement  to  gain  Amy’s  side.  In  the  hall  she 
slipped  her  arm  through  his.  “It’s  hard  to  live  in 
an  apartment  after  all  our  years  in  a  big  house.” 
She  sighed  and  they  went  into  a  large,  pleasant  room 
filled  with  tables  and  books.  “Sit  down  and  smoke. 
Give  me  a  cigarette,  too.” 

They  sat  down,  she  in  a  big  chair,  he  in  a  smaller 
one  that  faced  her.  “I  wonder  you  haven’t  guessed 
it  for  yourself,”  she  began  after  he  had  held  a  match 
for  her.  “But  of  course  men  are  very  stupid.” 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  studied  his  anxious 
face,  smiling  a  thin  nervous  smile  that  was  faintly 
a  reminder  of  Amy’s.  “Don’t  look  so  serious, 

Daniel.  Nothing  is  so  natural  as - as — birth.” 

He  stared  at  her,  alarmed  out  of  the  self-conscious¬ 
ness  that  had  always  attended  him  in  her  presence. 
She  nodded  at  him,  still  smiling.  “You  don’t  look 
pleased,  Daniel,”  she  added.  “That’s  too  bad  of 
you.” 

He  stammered,  “It’s — it’s  impossible.” 

“Not  at  all,  dear  boy.  Why  should  it  be  impos¬ 
sible?” 

“But  so  soon !  I  had  no  idea — good  God !” 

She  smiled  again  and  lifted  her  shoulders  slightly. 
“You  must  be  gentle  with  her,  Daniel.  Humor  her 
moods  and  spoil  her  a  great  deal.” 


212 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  nodded  and  gazed  down  at  his  feet  with  a 
stupid  expression.  Between  the  toes  of  his  boots 
lay  the  burned  match.  He  picked  it  up  and  twirled 
it  between  finger  and  thumb.  There  was  a  long 
silence.  Mrs.  Fiske  went  on  smoking,  her  alert  eyes 
on  his  face.  Presently  she  arose,  patted  his  shoulder 
and  left  the  room. 

Relaxing,  he  leaned  back,  dazed  and  limp  in  his 
chair.  What  a  damned  mess!  A  cataclysm  for  me. 
Nature’s  trap  has  closed.  So  I  must  be  gentle  and 
pretend  joy  for  her  sake.  I  didn’t  dream  this  would 
happen  for  years.  How  long  has  ,she  known? 
Guarding  her  illness  in  fear  of  my  resentment.  My 
life  will  be  hell  from  now  henceforth.  Restraints  and 
doctors,  alarms  and  evening  walks,  until  the  cata¬ 
menial  days  come  again. 

A  door  closed  somewhere  and  he  lifted  himself, 
frowning,  from  the  chair.  He  was  still  holding  the 
flaking  match  in  his  fingers.  He  dropped  it  into  an 
ashtray.  At  the  door  he  stopped  before  a  mirror 
and  examined  his  austere  face  and  pale  eyes,  lean¬ 
ing  forward  to  blink  at  his  reflection  and  to  screw 
up  his  mouth  into  a  smile.  I  must  look  happy. 
Happy  parenthood.  Happy  young  father.  Happy 
for  Amy’s  sake.  Stop  grousing.  Compose  crawl¬ 
ing  nerves.  Thousands  of  conceptions  every  day. 
The  reproduction  of  Daniel  Geer  is  as  unnotable  as 
that  of  a  coolie  in  swarming  China.  Paternity  plays 
a  negligible  part.  Different  for  her.  Maternity  all- 
important,  for  it  changes  mind  and  body — often  not 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


213 


for  the  better.  Amy  resents  it  now  but  later  nature 
will  inspire  love  for  the  child.  Curious,  motherhood 
is  called  the  strongest  instinct  yet  must  always  be 
forced  on  woman.  Why  is  there  that  other  instinct 
to  escape?  Why  does  she  not  eagerly  seek  her 
destiny  ? 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  again  fixed  a  smile  on 
his  face  before  returning  to  the  drawing  room.  Amy 
still  lay  on  the  couch.  Her  mother  sat  in  a  chair 
beside  her.  Sydney  had  gone.  Daniel’s  eyes,  mel¬ 
ancholy  and  alarmed  above  his  set  smile,  felt  for 
Amy’s  face.  For  a  moment  he  stood  by  the  couch 
without  speaking,  tightening  his  artificial  smirk  and 
gazing  down  into  her  haggard  eyes. 

“Your  mother  told  me,”  he  began  in  a  thin  voice, 
“and  I — I — ”  Damn  it,  that’s  not  the  way  to  tell 
her  I’m  happy.  Give  her  some  drama.  Something 
she  can  remember.  Sydney  would  know  how.  He’d 
play  up. 

Glancing  at  Mrs.  Fiske’s  cool  face,  he  dropped  to 
his  knees  and  seized  Amy’s  hands.  Kissing  them, 
he  exclaimed,  “Poor  little  girl!  Why  were  you 
afraid  to  tell  me?”  Not  very  good.  This  being  a 
hypocrite  comes  hard. 

Her  hands  rested  in  his,  cold  and  weak.  As  she 
looked  at  him  a  flush  crept  up  painfully  from  the 
thin  skin  of  her  neck.  “Daniel,”  she  said.  His 
name  caught  in  her  throat  and  she  paused. 

As  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  soft  and  moist  with 
tears,  his  own  melted  and  his  anger  flowed  away 


214 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


from  him.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  glabrous 
upper  lip  where  fine  beads  of  perspiration  were 
shining.  “Amy,  I’m  a  selfish  beast!”  he  cried. 
“Ever  since  your  mother  told  me  Fve  been  thinking 
only  of  myself  and  how  this  would  separate  us. 
And  worse — when  I  came  in  my  first  thought  was 
that  you  had  been  encouraging  that  man  Harrington. 
Oh,  forgive  me !” 

She  lifted  her  head  and  he  saw  fresh  tears  rush 
into  her  eyes.  “No,  Daniel,  I’m  the  beast !”  she 
burst  forth.  “And  I’m  going  to  tell  you  everything 
_ >> 

“Amy!”  Mrs.  Fiske  jumped  from  her  chair,  push¬ 
ing  him  aside,  and  shook  her  daughter’s  shoulder. 
“Don’t  be  hysterical,”  she  said  in  a  hard  angry 
voice.  “Go  to  bed.”  She  turned  an  agitated  face 
to  him.  “Don’t  let  her  talk  any  more  tonight,  Daniel. 
She’ll  be  ill  tomorrow.” 

Amy  threw  out  her  hand  toward  her  mother  in 
protest.  Her  eyes  were  bewildered  through  her 
tears.  Her  poise  was  gone,  brushed  off  by  the  ad¬ 
venture  of  her  body,  and  she  was  receptive  to 
the  wills  of  her  mother  and  her  husband.  The 
muscles  of  her  face  contracted,  moving  with  an  even 
wave-like  motion  under  the  skin.  With  a  bound 
she  turned  to  the  wall  and  began  to  sob  in  long- 
drawn  choking  cries  of  desolation. 

Blocking  his  forward  movement  with  her  arm, 
Mrs.  Fiske  clutched  his  sleeve  and  pulled  it.  “No. 
Let  her  alone.  I’ll  quiet  her.  Come.  I’ll  show 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


215 


you  where  you’re  to  sleep.  Do  you  want  to  catch 
that  early  train  in  the  morning?  I’ll  have  you  called 
at  seven.” 

With  face  turned  to  wood  he  resisted  her  with 
expressionless  eyes.  “I  want  to  know  what 
Amy  was  going  to  tell  me  when  you  stopped 
her,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  like  mysteries.”  He 
bent  toward  the  rumpled  green  figure  on  the 
couch.  “Amy!” 

Amy  checked  a  sob.  “Go  away!”  she  wailed. 
“Go  away!” 

Mrs.  Fiske  pulled  his  arm  again.  “My  dear  boy, 
there  isn’t  any  mystery.  She’s  ill  and  hysterical.  To¬ 
morrow  she  will  have  forgotten  all  this.  I  know 
her  better  than  you,  Daniel.”  He  followed  her  un¬ 
willingly  from  the  room,  his  knees  bending  with 
difficulty,  and  down  the  hall.  She  opened  a  door.  “I 
hope  you’ll  be  comfortable.  The  bath  is  across  the 
hall.  I’ll  take  Amy  in  with  me  tonight.”  She  held 
out  her  hand  and  he  took  it  slowly. 

“You’ll  call  me  if  she  wants  anything?” 

“Of  course.  Goodnight.” 

Puzzled,  he  looked  down  at  her  with  pain-filled 
eyes  and  found  her  alien  and  pitiless.  He  drew  a 
deep  necessary  breath.  “Goodnight.”  He  closed  the 
door  with  a  ligneous  gesture  and  went  into  the  nar¬ 
row  room.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  he  lis¬ 
tened  for  Amy’s  voice  and  stared  steadily  up  at  an 
old  photograph  that  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
taken  when  her  hemal-colored  hair  had  fallen 


216 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


to  her  waist  in  thick  shining  braids.  One  by 
one  the  night  noises  faded  away  and  the  only 
sounds  in  his  straining  ears  were  the  sighs  of  his 
own  breathing. 


XIII 


One  hot  afternoon  of  the  first  week  in  August 
Daniel  left  himself  into  the  apartment  and  went  to 
the  door  of  Amy’s  room.  She  was  sitting  before 
her  dressing  table  putting  up  her  hair.  When  she 
heard  his  step  she  turned,  arms  uplifted. 

“Why,  Daniel!  Is  anything  wrong?” 

He  came  and  stood  close  to  her.  His  nostrils 
dilated  to  drink  the  warm  scent  that  rose  from  her 
hair  but  his  lips  were  set  in  a  tight  line.  “I  have  a 
bad  headache.  I’ve  knocked  off  for  the  afternoon. 
After  dinner  I’ll  go  back.  Had  your  luncheon?” 

“And  hour  ago.  Well — ”  She  paused  reflect¬ 
ively  and  passed  her  fingers  in  and  out  of  her  long 
hair.  “Why  don’t  you  lie  down  in  your  room  and 
sleep?  I’ll  call  you  in  time  for  dinner.”  Her  hands 
relaxed  and  their  load  of  red  hair  slipped  and  fell 
down  on  her  shoulders. 

Searching  her  face,  he  asked,  “Were  you  going 
out?  Don’t  let  me  interfere  with  your  plans.” 

She  lifted  her  arms  again  and  gazed  into  the 
glass,  coiling  and  twisting  her  hair  until  her  head 
took  on  its  familiar  contour.  “No,  I’m  not  going 
out.” 

Her  yellow  tea  gown  lay  on  the  lace  covers  of  the 
217 


218 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


bed.  He  glanced  at  it.  “Someone  coming  in?”  He 
turned  and  stared  at  the  smooth  warm  face  in  the 
glass,  noting  the  expression  of  studied  indifference 
that  had  entered  her  eyes.  She  met  his  gaze  there 
in  the  mirror  and  her  eyelids  fell.  She  began  to 
gather  up  more  hairpins  and  thrust  them  into  the 
ovoid  knot  of  hair  just  above  the  nape  of  her 
neck. 

“Perhaps  Elizabeth — I  don’t  know.  It’s  too  hot 
to  expect  anyone.” 

“Yes.  Only  a  lover  would  make  a  call  on  a  day  like 
this.” 

She  did  not  answer  or  look  at  him  as  he  sat  down. 
Her  fingers,  suddenly  nervous,  jabbed  in  the  last 
hairpin.  Rising,  she  stood  before  him  in  a  thin  rose 
chemise  while  she  patted  powder  on  her  neck  and 
arms  from  a  large,  glass  bowl.  His  eyes  passed 
from  the  fire  of  her  hair  to  the  milk-white  flesh  of 
her  throat,  making  its  sweeping  curve  outward 
and  then  abruptly  turning  in  above  the  waistline. 
From  there  his  gaze  dropped,  grew  sustained,  sharp, 
concerned.  “Amy!”  At  his  tone  she  sent  him  an 
involuntary  glance  of  inquiry. 

“Yes?” 

“I  had  no  idea — ”  He  made  a  blind  gesture 
toward  her  body.  “I  hadn’t  noticed  before — it’s 
quite  distinct,  isn’t  it?” 

A  red  wave  passed  over  her  neck  and  face.  She 
caught  up  her  kimono  and  turned  her  back.  “I’m 
sorry.  Does  it  offend  you?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


219 


His  tone  sharpened.  “You  know  it’s  not  that. 
But  it  seems  to  me — a  little  abnormal.”  He  stared 
at  her  back,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair.  “I 
remember  when  Ruth  had  her  first — no  one  would 
have  known  till  the  end  of  the  winter.” 

“Perhaps  she  wasn’t  as  thin  as  I.”  Her  voice 
came  as  from  a  distance,  weak  and  soft.  Turning, 
she  went  to  the  bed.  Her  flush  had  faded,  leaving 
her  white  and  tired.  She  lifted  her  dress,  spread  it 
out  and  slipped  it  over  her  head. 

“How  long  have  we  been  married,  Amy?  Four 
months  ?” 

“Yes.  I  suppose  I’m  one  of  those  unfortunate 
women  that  can’t  conceal  it.  You  know,  it  differs 
greatly  among  women.” 

He  nodded.  “Yes.  It  seems  to  me  I’ve  heard 

_ jj 

While  she  fastened  her  belt  he  stared  out  of  the 
window  with  brows  drawn  over  brooding  eyes. 
Presently  she  came  to  him  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  “I’m  sorry  your  head  aches.  You’d  bet¬ 
ter  lie  down.”  He  continued  to  look  away  from  her. 
She  laid  her  palm  on  his  temple.  Unconsciously  he 
pressed  his  head  forward  against  it.  At  this  sign 
relief  trembled  in  the  curling  corners  of  her  mouth. 
She  tightened  her  hand. 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  threw  herself  down 
on  his  knees  and  kissed  him.  His  lips  were  cold  and 
dry.  They  tightened  inward  from  her  pressure. 
Drawing  away,  she  looked  into  his  empty  gaze  until 


220 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


his  eyes  came  to  a  focus  on  hers.  For  the  first  time 
he  showed  no  pleasure  in  her  beauty.  His  look,  filled 
with  pain,  accused  her.  Seeing,  she  bent  down 
quickly  and  fastened  the  curve  of  her  mouth  to  the 
pale  arid  line  of  his  lips,  pressing  against  it  until  a 
quiver  shot  through  his  muscles  to  betray  his  resolu¬ 
tion.  She  relaxed,  then,  and  accepted  a  hail  of 
kisses,  her  half-closed  eyes  secret  and  reassured. 
His  kisses  fell  downward  along  the  satin  surface  of 
her  neck. 

“I  love  you — why  do  you  torture  me — I  mustn’t 
doubt  you - ” 

She  raised  her  arm  cautiously  back  of  his  head 
and  glanced  at  her  wristwatch.  “Do  lie  down, 
Daniel,  and  sleep.” 

“If  you  will  stay  with  me,”  he  answered  in  a 
choked  drunken  voice.  He  buried  his  face  in  the 
warmth  of  her  breast  and  breathed  the  perfumed 
flesh  into  his  blood.  The  moisture  of  her  skin 
burned  his  mouth.  He  mumbled  into  the  softness, 
‘  ‘Amy — Amy - ” 

Her  eyes  were  triumphant  above  his  head.  “Yes. 
Until  you  fall  asleep.”  She  paused  through  his 
tightened  embrace.  “Daniel — there  are  some  things 
I  must  get  tomorrow.  Will  you  give  me  a  check 
before  you  go?” 

He  nodded  and  rose  up  from  his  chair,  lifting  her 
up  high  in  his  arms.  “Come  lie  by  me  Amy,  while 
I  sleep.” 


XIV 


When  he  awoke  she  had  gone.  He  turned  on  his 
side  and  saw  the  hollow  her  head  had  pressed  into 
the  pillow.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  stroked  the 
linen.  She’d  leave  me  if  she  knew  what  I’ve  been 
thinking.  I  have  a  cheap  imagination,  set  in  motion 
by  jealousy.  The  arc  of  her  body.  The  arc  of  the 
marriage  covenant.  A  sign  and  a  promise  that  she’s 
mine.  Carrying,  they  call  it.  Some  women  carry 
high,  some  carry  low.  Perhaps  a  matter  of  tem¬ 
perament.  He  has  a  life  of  his  own  already.  Didn’t 
realize  it  until  I  saw  him  inflating  her,  making  his 
place,  feeding  on  her  blood.  Mona  Lisa’s  son  and 
my  link  to  immortality.  He’ll  arrive  some  day  be¬ 
tween  editions  and  I’ll  have  a  duty  toward  him. 
Education.  If  a  girl,  Amy’s  duty.  He  shall  have 
Greek  and  Latin  for  his  mind,  French  and  Spanish 
for  his  tongue.  Give  him  science  at  school  that  he 
may  not  be  a  sciolist  like  me,  and  send  him  to 
Europe  for  art.  He  shall  read  Anatole  France,  the 
Bible,  Turgenieff,  Thomas  Hardy,  St.  Augustine, 
Walter  Pater,  George  Moore,  Henry  Adams — the 
only  American  aesthete — of  course  the  ancients. 
I’ll  make  him  a  list  of  my  old  delights.  I’ll  tell  him 
life  has  only  a  few  high  points  except  for  books. 
I’ve  had  Amy,  the  war  and — that’s  all.  My  boy 


221 


222 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


may  be  the  last,  for  immense  emotional  deserts  lie 
between  those  rare  peaks. 

He  sat  up.  “Amy!”  He  jumped  from  bed  and 
went  into  the  hall.  “Amy !”  He  came  back,  caught 
up  his  coat  and  trousers  from  a  chair  and  took  them 
into  his  room.  In  his  bathrobe  he  made  a  tour  of 
the  apartment.  Passing  at  last  into  the  kitchen,  he 
remembered  it  was  Thursday  and  the  maid  would 
not  be  in  until  dinner  time.  The  nickel  clock  on  the 
shelf  was  ticking  insolently.  Half-past  four.  I 
must  have  slept  nearly  two  hours.  The  last  thing  I 
remember  her  green  eyes  were  penetrating  me - 

The  bell  over  the  door  trilled  and  at  the  violent 
sound  he  scowled  up  at  the  bit  of  dirty  metal. 
Damn !  IT1  have  to  go.  Perhaps  she  forgot  her 
key,  that  high-minded  Mary,  handing  me  prim  looks 
with  the  grapefruit.  Or  it  might  be  Amy. 

He  hurried  to  the  door.  A  messenger  boy  stood 
there,  holding  out  a  long,  white  box.  Daniel  signed 
his  name  and  carried  the  box  into  his  room.  Won¬ 
der  who  sent  this?  Better  open  and  put  in  water. 
Penknife  for  string.  Must  remember  to  bring 
flowers  sometimes.  She  always  likes  them  about. 
Buys  them  by  the  wholesale.  These  smell  like  a 
death — or  Easter. 

He  lifted  an  armful  of  lilies  from  the  box.  A  small 
envelope  slipped  to  the  floor.  He  picked  it  up  and 
saw  it  was  unsealed.  With  a  hesitant  finger  he  raised 
the  flap  and  drew  out  a  card.  Mr.  Sidney  Harring¬ 
ton.  Underneath  in  fine  writing,  “lls  sont  comme 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


223 


tes  belles  mains.”  Staring  at  the  words,  his  face 
filled  with  blood.  He  dropped  the  card  to  the  floor 
and  ground  it  with  his  heel  into  the  Mexican  rug. 

The  sheaf  of  lillies  was  lying  in  the  curve  of  his 
arm.  He  filled  his  fists  with  stiff,  waxen  heads  and 
mauled  them  into  sticky  shapelessness.  Dropping 
them  to  the  rug,  he  stood  over  them,  watching  their 
scattered,  wet  petals,  gray  now  from  the  crushing. 

All  at  once  he  threw  up  his  head  and  strode  into 
the  hall  with  trembling  knees  to  stand  before  her 
door,  his  face  bloodless  and  twitching,  his  eyes  fas¬ 
tened  on  her  desk  in  a  corner.  He  went  to  it  in  long 
strides  and  shook  the  cover.  It  resisted  and  the 
placid  shining  wood  reflected  his  rage  back  into  his 
eyes.  He  ran  to  the  kitchen  and  brought  back  a 
hammer.  The  thin  wood  splintered  about  the  lock. 

Letters  filled  the  pigeon  holes  and  drawers.  He 
pulled  them  from  their  envelopes,  glanced  at  saluta¬ 
tion  and  signature  and  threw  them  on  the  floor. 
Helen,  Marian,  Florence,  writing  from  Boston. 
One  from  her  mother — he  read  a  page  at  random 
.  .  .  “Make  the  best  of  what  you  have,  dear  child. 
Avoid  arousing  his  temper  and  remember  he  is  not 
modern.  Time  cures  everything  and  you  will  for¬ 
get  the  other.  Above  all,  do  not  make  a  scandal. 
It  would  do  no  good  for  Edith  will  never  give  him 
a  divorce.  I  met  Mrs.  Bowles  yesterday  and  she  is 
sailing  next  month.  .  .  .”  He  flipped  out  a  small 
drawer.  An  envelope  lay  there  addressed  to  Amy  in 
the  writing  of  the  card.  He  opened  it.  Empty. 


224 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


The  outer  door  closed.  He  threw  the  envelope 
from  him  with  a  savage  gesture  and  ran  into  the  hall. 
"Amy  !” 

"Yes,  Daniel.”  She  came  toward  him  uncon¬ 
cerned,  a  floating  silk  cape  over  her  yellow  dress. 
"Are  you  awake?  How  is  your  headache?” 

He  confronted  her,  both  hands  gripping  the  cord 
of  his  bathrobe.  "Where  have  you  been?” 

"I — I — had  an  errand — ”  She  stopped,  seeing 
his  eyes.  "What’s  the  matter?” 

"Were  you  telephoning?”  She  stared  at  him  puz¬ 
zled,  frightened,  defiant.  With  outthrust  chin  he 
strode  to  her  and  closed  his  fingers  on  her  wrist. 
"You  went  out  to  telephone — him — not  to  come  be¬ 
cause  I  am  here — didn’t  you?”  He  shook  her  arm 
and  felt  it  grow  limp.  She  drooped  and  the  muscles 
of  her  face  sagged.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  swayed. 
"Here !”  He  jerked  her  along  to  the  door  of  his 
room  and  pointed  to  the  lilies  that  strewed  the  rug. 
"Like  your  hands,  he  wrote — the  bastard — ”  He 
crushed  her  wrist  and  gloated  over  her  cry  of  pain. 

"Daniel !  You’re  acting  like  a  lunatic.”  Blood 
flowed  into  her  face,  brought  by  the  pain  in  her  arm. 
"What  harm  is  there  in  flowers?” 

He  ignored  this,  standing  against  her,  sneering 
into  her  eyes,  pulling  her  to  him  until  her  face  lay 
below  his.  "You’re  cold  to  me  but  I  bet  you  warm 
up  when  he  comes  around !  And  all  the  time  you’re 
living  on  my  money!”  His  voice  became  strident, 
filling  the  corridor.  His  words  beat  against  the 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


225 


walls.  “By  God,  I’ll  teach  you — damn  you!”  He 
raised  an  arm  over  her  head  and  lifted  his  convulsed, 
flaming  face.  She  wilted  before  him,  anticipating 
a  blow.  Her  thin  eyelids  fluttered  and  her  mouth 
opened  and  grew  pale  before  his  threatening  posture. 

She  whispered,  “Daniel,  don’t!”  Her  mouth 
twisted,  her  eyes  swelled  with  tears. 

His  arm  unstiffened  and  fell.  Tremors  shook  him 
and  his  hands,  denied  their  desire,  twitched  at  his 
sides.  The  muscles  of  his  face  moved  in  tortured 
little  jumps. 

She  stepped  back.  “Daniel,  I  haven’t - ” 

“Don’t  lie!”  His  hand  leaped  out  at  her  arm. 
“That’s  what  you  were  going  to  confess  that  night 
in  Boston !” 

“No — it  wasn’t - ” 

Holding  her  arm,  he  gave  a  harsh  laugh.  “It’s 
funny — when  I  think  how  I  used  to  suffer — my  in¬ 
feriority — afraid  of  your  pretences — your  little  deli¬ 
cacies.  I’ve  even  been  ashamed  to  let  you  see  my 
family.”  His  lips  drew  back  from  his  teeth.  “Now 
I  know  what  your  blue  blood  amounts  to — it  only 
makes  it  easier  for  you  to  be  a  God  damned - !” 

The  epithet  he  chose  was  a  soft  spitting  word 
that,  spoken  tenderly,  its  meaning  unknown,  has  the 
yearning  intense  sound  of  a  Russian  love  word. 
Bending  forward,  he  spit  it  into  her  face  with  the 
unseasoned  vulgarity  which  the  provincial  male  feels 
for  the  female.  Then,  the  ardor  of  his  rage  spent, 
he  released  her  arm  and  stood  back. 


226 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Freed  from  his  menace,  she  passed  into  complete 
aloofness.  A  cold  scorn  gathered  in  her  eyes, 
deepening  their  color  to  a  slate  gray  and  dilating 
the  large  pupils.  The  lines  of  her  face  patterned 
themselves  into  a  white  severity.  “I  might  have 
known  you  were  a  beast,”  she  said.  “The  signs 
were  plain  enough.” 

His  eyes  slowly  left  her  face.  He  bent  his  head 
and  saw  his  bathrobe  opened  over  wrinkled  under¬ 
wear.  The  shirt,  unbuttoned  over  his  chest,  revealed 
a  mat  of  light  curling  hairs.  He  lifted  trembling 
hands  and  pulled  his  bathrobe  together.  His  face 
was  as  pale  as  hers  and  his  lips  still  turned  back  in 
an  exaggerated  sneer.  Fumbling  with  a  button,  he 
muttered,  “I’ve  only  told  you  the  truth.” 

“How  can  you  know  the  truth?”  She  spoke  in 
an  even  metallic  voice  that  further  confused  him. 
“Your  middle  class  standards  are  new  to  me. 
Among  the  people  I’ve  known  a  woman  doesn’t  lose 
her  friends  /because  she  marries.  And  husbands 
don’t  use  vile  words  because  an  old  friend  has  the 
courtesy  to  send  flowers.” 

“You’re  in  love  with  him!  You  needn’t  put  on 
airs  and  talk  about  your  class  because  I’ve  found 
out !”  He  bent  forward  and  caught  her  arm  again, 
digging  his  fingers  into  the  trembling  tendons.  “I 
smashed  open  your  desk  and  read  a  letter  from  your 
mother!” 

Her  arm  grew  rigid,  then  limp.  She  flushed, 
turned  white.  Her  head  dropped  forward  and  she 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  227 

slipped  to  the  floor,  her  black  silk  cape  lying  under 
her  like  a  shield. 

He  looked  at  the  curve  of  her  body  and  remem¬ 
bered.  “God !”  he  said.  He  went  to  the  bathroom 
with  uneven  steps  and  drew  water  in  a  glass.  Kneel¬ 
ing  by  her,  he  sprinkled  it  over  her  face.  She 
stirred.  Her  eyelids  flickered,  opened,  closed.  He 
took  her  hand  between  his  palms  and  rubbed  it,  his 
eyes  on  the  slender  satin  fingers  and  long  nails, 
stained  with  pink. 

She  began  to  moan.  “Sydney !”  Her  body 
twisted  and  she  threw  out  her  hands. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet.  “Sydney,  eh?”  He  flung 
down  the  glass.  It  smashed  and  scattered.  “You 
want  your  pretty  Sydney,  do  you?  Well,  I’ll  fix 
that !” 

He  ran  down  the  hall  to  the  telephone  table  and 
opened  the  directory.  “H — Har — Harri — ”  He 
lifted  the  receiver  and  gave  the  number.  “Hello. 
Mr.  Harrington,  please.  Tell  him  Mrs.  Geer  would 
like  to  speak  to  him.”  He  panted  through  the  pause. 
“Mr.  Harrington?  This  is  Daniel  Geer.  In  the 
future  I  want  you  to  keep  away  from  my  wife.  Do 
you  get  that?  If  I  ever  catch  you  speaking  to  her 
again,  I’ll  knock  your  head  off.” 

He  slammed  the  receiver  down  and  strode  to  his 
room.  In  five  minutes  he  was  dressed.  Without 
looking  at  Amy,  sitting  crumpled  on  the  floor 
against  the  wall,  he  passed  by  her  and  out  of  the 
door. 


XV 


Miss  Elliot  came  in  without  the  day’s  letters. 
“I’m  sorry  they’re  not  finished,”  she  said.  “Mr. 
Bird  wanted  me  to  copy  that  Mexican  feature  stuff. 
That  woman  always  sends  it  in  longhand.” 

Daniel  glanced  up  at  her  with  bloodshot  roaming 
eyes.  “What’s  that?”  While  she  repeated,  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  with  contracting  face. 

“Have  you  still  got  that  headache,  Mr.  Geer?” 
She  made  a  little  clucking  sound.  “Tch!  Tch!” 
Her  blunt  fingers  nervously  poked  a  pencil  under  the 
elastic  of  her  notebook.  He  turned  and  their  motion 
drew  his  eyes.  He  gazed  at  the  flat  nails  and  prom¬ 
inent  knuckles.  With  an  abrupt  gesture  he  reached 
across  the  side  of  the  desk  and  took  her  hand. 

“Honest  and  straightforward,  aren’t  you?  Cross 
sometimes,  but  you  do  your  work  and  don’t  ask 
favors  of  anybody.  The  man  you  marry  will  always 
know  where  he  stands.” 

She  left  her  hand  in  his.  “Why,  Mr.  Geer !” 
She  caught  her  breath  and  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes. 

He  went  on.  “I  suppose  I  oughtn’t  to  call  you 
cross  considering  my  own  office  manners.”  He 
examined  her  face  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
remembering  her  fresh  olive  skin  and  the  gold  glints 
228 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  229 

in  her  eyes.  Her  mouth  relaxed  and  trembled  in 
childish  lines. 

“A  big  executive  like  you  has  a  right  to  be  cross,” 
she  said.  “Especially  with  some  of  the  people  you’ve 
got  in  this  office.” 

Daniel  nodded  up  at  her,  conscious  he  still  was 
holding  her  hand  in  his,  fearing  to  lose  her  warming 
sympathy  by  relaxing  his  fingers.  “You  mean 
Trainer.  Never  mind  him.  He’s  valuable  to  me.” 
His  eyes  ran  over  her,  approving  her  fresh  white 
waist  with  its  boyish  collar  and  protective  paper 
cuffs.  “Thanks  for  your  defence,  Miss  Elliot.  Run 
along  now  and  get  out  my  letters.  See  that  one  to 
Chicago  goes  registered.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Geer.”  She  looked  down  at  him  in 
gentle  understanding  and  withdrew  her  warm,  brown 
hand,  smiling  slowly. 

She  went  away  and  he  turned  again  to  the  win¬ 
dow,  staring  across  the  court  into  a  line  of  busy 
bright  offices.  Elliot  knows  something  is  wrong. 
Her  intuition  can  sense  my  suffering  even  though 
I’ve  done  with  useless  rages  now.  Jealousy  a 
poisoned  arrow  in  my  heart.  A  ridiculous  undigni¬ 
fied  emotion,  despised  by  my  intelligence.  The 
lowest  form  of  abasement.  A  jaundiced  condition 
that  prevents  reason  from  operating  and  puts  a  man 
on  a  plane  with  a  Barbary  pigeon.  In  Africa  they 
use  needle  and  thread  to  prevent  being  cuckolded 
Unhealthy  but  efficient.  You  can’t  undo  stitches 
with  a  Crusader’s  duplicate  key.  Only  persons  con- 


230 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


scious  of  their  inferiority  are  supposed  to  feel  jeal¬ 
ousy.  Not  true.  Take  Sydney.  Enamelled  with 
culture  but  never  had  an  original  idea  in  his  life. 
A  handsome  peacock  with  good  taste  and  a  retentive 
memory  for  Latin.  If  he  comes  there  again  I’ll 
kick  him  through  the  door.  He  won’t  dare.  That 
kind  of  man  always  a  coward.  I’m  a  coward,  too, 
for  not  being  able  to  leave  her.  If  I  did  she’d  go  to 

him — I’d  never  see  her  again - 

He  pounded  his  fist  on  the  desk  and  his  eyes  grew 
blind  with  tears.  He  got  up,  blinking,  and  went  to 
close  the  door  to  the  city  room.  Stop  thinking  about 
it.  Do  the  night’s  work.  Forget  my  life  is  given 
to  a  cheat — a  beautiful  leech,  living  on  my  money 
and  another  man’s  love.  Instincts  of  a  prostitute. 
Gives  herself,  asks  for  something  in  the  same  breath. 
She’ll  get  no  more  checks  from  me.  That  old  Ger¬ 
man  print  of  outspread  limbs,  fleshy  as  Rubens 
made  them,  gold  falling  accurately  from  above. 
Zeus  wooing  Danse  with  a  shower  of  gold.  Hence¬ 
forth  I  shall  see  my  marriage  like  a  diorama,  colored 
and  spectacular,  on  which  I  shall  gaze  with  stony 
eyes,  a  husband  emeritus,  retired  not  from  age  but 
from  lack  of  complacency.  Loving  him,  why  did 
she  marry  me?  I’ll  ask  her  for  the  truth — if  one 
may  ask  that  of  a  woman.  Perhaps  she’ll  answer, 
“Woman’s  only  weapon  against  man  is  a  lie — her 
subtle  revenge  for  enslavements,  cruelties  and  insults. 
She  wards  off  his  advance  with  a  lie — or  with  a  lie 
captures  him  for  her  own  uses.  He  preys — she 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


231 


lies.”  Women  prey,  too,  I’ll  point  out,  and  profit 
by  our  lust  for  them.  We  prey  more  successfully 
because  we  have  more  strength  and  opportunities. 
I  bet  women  would  enjoy  a  bloody  sword  and  an 
ironic  gesture  of  chivalry,  too,  if  they  ever  got  a 
chance  at  it.  The  Turks  are  the  only  race  with  the 
right  idea.  They  say  frankly,  “Women,  look  out! 
Veil  your  faces  so  we  won’t  be  tempted  to  rape. 
Too  bad  men  are  so  lustful  that  your  lives  must  be 
spent  in  a  rug-padded  prison  guarded  by  the  whips 
of  eunuchs.  But  your  master  and  your  children  will 
be  enough  for  you.  You  will  be  happier  without  a 
mental  life.  Few  men  have  one  anyway.”  By  God, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I’d  like  to  be  a  Turk ! 

The  bell  under  his  desk  jangled  and  he  turned  to 
the  telephone.  “Hello.” 

“This  is  Mary.” 

“Mary?  What  Mary?” 

“Mary  at  your  apartment.” 

“Oh.”  He  paused,  gripping  the  telephone  tightly. 
“What  is  it,  Mary?”  His  hands  began  to  tremble. 
He  set  the  cloth-covered  base  down  on  the  desk. 

“It’s  about  Mrs.  Geer.  I  thought  you’d  want  to 
know - ” 

“Yes.  Know  what?” 

“When  I  came  back  today  she  was — well,  she’s 
gone  away,  sir.” 

“How  do  you  know  ?’ 

“She  packed  her  things.  All  her  clothes  and 
books.” 


232 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  bent  over  and  caught  his  breath.  He  pressed 
his  hand  to  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  “Oh.  Thanks 
Mary.” 

“Shall  I  lay  out  your  supper  as  usual,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“No.  Yes.  I  don’t — Mary!  Was  she — did  she 
go  away  alone  ?” 

“No,  sir.  Miss  Corning  came  for  her  in  a  taxi.” 

“Oh.”  He  closed  his  eyes  and  leaned  his  fore¬ 
head  on  the  cold  metal  of  the  telephone.  Someone 
was  knocking  at  the  door.  He  hung  up  the  receiver. 
Gone.  She’ll  never  come  back.  She’ll  go  to  him. 
If  she  does,  I’ll  kill  her — kill  them  both — kill  myself. 
Amy,  my  beautiful  Amy — never  to  kiss  you  again! 

He  bent  his  head  over  the  desk.  Sobs  rose  in  his 
throat.  The  knocking  began  again.  The  door 
opened  and  closed.  Someone  walked  up  to  the  back 
of  his  chair. 

“You  forgot  to  give  me  the  enclosure  for  that 
Chicago  letter.  I  have  to  copy  it.” 

He  tried  to  reply.  His  voice  choked  him. 

“Oh!”  Miss  Elliot’s  note  book  dropped  to  the 
floor.  “What’s  the  matter,  Mr.  Geer?  Are  you 
sick?” 

He  shook  his  head  and  a  tear  flattened  on  the 
polished  wood  of  his  desk.  He  put  his  hand  over 
his  face  and  made  her  a  humiliated  gesture  of  dis¬ 
missal. 

She  ignored  it,  coming  close  to  him  as  he  sat 
bowed  over  in  his  chair  and  putting  both  arms  about 
his  shoulders.  He  found  himself  sobbing  into  the 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


233 

folds  of  her  white  waist.  “Poor  Mr.  Geer/’  she 
whispered,  “Poor  Mr.  Geer.” 

He  threw  an  arm  about  her  waist  as  she  stood 
there  and  pressed  it  through  a  great  surging  of  his 
pain.  Her  body  relaxed.  Her  heart  beat  in  quick 
thuds  against  his  eyes.  He  smelled  roses  and  faint 
lavender.  All  at  once  she  stiffened  and  drew  away. 

“Someone  at  the  door,”  she  said. 

He  released  her  mechanically  without  looking  up. 
He  heard  her  walk  across  the  concrete  floor  and 
open  the  door. 

“You  can’t  see  him  now,”  she  said.  “He’s  very 
busy.  Give  those  to  Mr.  Trainer.  He’s  to  take  care 
of  them  tonight.  I’ll  go  tell  him.” 

The  door  closed.  He  was  alone.  He  felt  for  his 
handkerchief.  What  a  fool  I  made  of  myself! 
Feeling  better,  though.  But  into  another  mess. 
Good  God !  That  girl  loves  me.  So  much  the  worse 
for  her.  Love  is  a  vis  a  tergo,  like  death,  corroding, 
pushing  and  torturing  its  victims.  Begins  by  titil¬ 
lating  the  emotions  and  ends  in  a  tabid  disease  of  the 
heart.  Its  pleasures  are  brief  and  unclean.  Disgust 
follows.  Desire  renews  itself.  The  ancient  cycle 
recommences.  Death,  renascence  and  suffering 
without  end.  Love !  Amy  floats  through  my  being, 
clinging  and  haunting,  as  sad  as  Debussy’s  clouds, 
her  hair  shining  in  my  eyes  like  coins  in  sunlight. 
She  is  my  rapture,  my  delirium,  my  aberration  of 
will.  My  reason  must  end  this  before  it  becomes  too 
atrophied  for  action. 


234 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  replaced  his  handkerchief,  smoothed  down  his 
hair  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Sydney  will  probably  be 
afraid  to  see  her.  She  will  resent  his  unheroic  be¬ 
havior,  her  romance  fading  as  she  sees  her  own 
unromantic  figure  in  the  glass.  She’ll  come  back 
without  coaxing.  I’ll  write  to  her  mother  for  sub 
rosa  assistance.  In  the  meantime,  to  work — before 
I  turn  into  a  weakling  like  the  tea-taster. 

He  pulled  over  the  telephone  and  asked  for  Train¬ 
er’s  desk.  “Bring  in  that  layout,  please.  I’m 
waiting.” 


XVI 


The  sultry  afternoon  advanced.  August  heat 
pressed  in  painfully  through  open  windows. 
Daniel  sat  at  his  desk,  smoking  and  examining 
proofs,  sensible  of  the  choking  air,  the  droning 
voices  in  the  city  room  and  typewriters  in  angry, 
staccato  conversation.  Across  the  court  two  steno¬ 
graphers  stood  at  a  window  with  paper  fans,  leaning 
out  and  sighing. 

Someone  came  in  the  door  behind  him  and  he 
drove  a  cloud  from  his  brain.  God,  for  a  private 
beach  at  Tahiti!  “What  is  it  now?”  He  spoke 
viciously  from  set  teeth  and  then  turned  his  head. 
“Sorry,  Tobey.  Thought  it  was  an  office  boy.  I 
see  you  got  them  out  early  this  week.” 

Tobey  chose  an  envelope  from  his  elastic-bound 
package  and  put  it  in  Daniel’s  hand.  “I’d  like  to 
change  checks  with  you,  Mr.  Geer.”  He  lifted  a 
grimy  hand  on  which  shone  a  gold  ring  marked  with 
an  elaborate  T  and  pushed  back  his  unhealthy  hair. 

Daniel  grunted.  “You’ll  have  to  change  your 
character  first.  Look  at  your  fingers — yellow  with 
nicotine.  When  I  was  your  age — ”  He  examined 
with  severe  eyes  the  lad’s  mouldy  skin  and  soiled 
frayed  collar.  “Well,  get  on.  Disperse  joy  in  the 
city  room.  They’re  all  waiting  for  you,” 


235 


236  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

Tobey  snapped  his  elastic  band.  “Great  row  on 
downstairs.  Haines  is  on  his  ear.  He’s  outside 
now,  waiting  to  get  in  at  Mr.  Bird.” 

Unscrewing  the  top  of  his  fountain  pen,  Daniel 
remarked,  “Not  interested,  Tobey.” 

The  boy  shuffled  out.  Daniel  wrote  his  name 
on  the  back  of  his  check  and  addressed  an  envelope 
to  his  bank.  He  sealed  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
Then  he  picked  up  a  proof  and  began  reading  it  with 
leaden  eyes.  Presently  he  struck  out  a  word  and 
wrote  another  in  the  margin.  What  an  abominable 
use  of  the  human  intelligence !  It  was  probably  an 
extrinsic  editorial  like  this  that  caused  them  to  throw 
those  Utamaros  into  the  sea.  Tea  into  Boston  Har¬ 
bor.  Erotics  into  the  New  York  bay.  To  hell  with 
tea.  But  they  went  to  war  over  dried  leaves  and  only 
a  few  beauty  lovers  mourned  those  delicate  prints. 
Why  doesn’t  an  invisible  hooded  band  get  after  the 
vice  commissions?  I’d  write  “Kill”  on  this  if 
Horace  were  away. 

A  fly  made  the  circle  of  his  head  and  descended 
softly  upon  his  hand.  He  struck  at  it  and  it  rose 
to  the  ceiling,  buzzing  its  anger.  A  light  dust  lay 
on  his  desk  like  a  veil.  Voices  passed  his  door. 
“Naw,  she  wouldn’t  dare.”  “You’re  darned  right, 
she  wouldn’t.”  The  fly  swooped  down,  avoided  the 
edge  of  his  collar  and  bit  his  neck.  He  swore  and 
clapped  his  hand  to  the  stinging  flesh,  turning  to 
watch  the  insect  in  flight.  What  a  hell  of  a  mood 
to  be  in !  I’d  like  to  take  off  collar  and  shoes,  drink 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


237 

beer  and  spit  on  the  floor.  Back  to  Grandfather 
Geer’s  store  in  Tarrytown. 

He  wiped  his  face  dry  and  waved  his  elbows  to 
coax  air  between  shirt  and  skin.  He  felt  he  had 
grown  thin  since  morning.  He  took  up  his  yellow 
pencil  again. 

At  half-past  six  Miss  Elliot  came  in,  walking 
rather  sentimentally  on  new  high  heels.  She  wore 
a  blouse  of  blue  chiffon  with  a  row  of  yellow  bead 
trimming  about  the  neck. 

“Hello,”’  he  said.  “How  are  you  standing  the 
heat?  I  don’t  half  mind  it.” 

“Well,  I  like  winter  better,”  she  said  and  laid  a 
sheaf  of  letters  on  the  desk. 

“I  don’t.”  He  looked  at  her  and  his  eyes  were 
caught  by  the  blue  of  her  waist.  “How  did  you 
manage  that?  Been  home?” 

She  smiled  down  with  shy,  hazel  eyes.  “No.  I 
changed  it  upstairs.” 

“Very  pretty.  But  I  like  your  others  better. 
Those  white  ones  you  always  wear.” 

Her  smile  died  away.  “Oh,  do  you?” 

“Yes.  They’re  more  like  you.  Going  to  a 
party?” 

“No.”  She  flushed  and  tightened  her  fingers  on 
the  edge  of  the  desk.  “This  is  cooler.” 

He  watched  the  blood  flowing  under  her  dark 
skin.  She’s  lying.  She  went  to  that  trouble  for 
vanity.  Poor  kid.  Probably  a  dull  life.  A  sweet 
shamed  expression.  She’s  afraid  I’ve  guessed. 


238 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  crossed  his  arms. 
“I  don’t  know  anything  about  you,”  he  said.  “But 
I’d  like  to  if  you  don’t  mind.  Were  you  born  in 
New  York?” 

“I’m  from  Elmira.  You’ve  heard  of  Elmira?” 
He  nodded  and  she  went  on  with  excited  eyes.  “My 
sister  got  married  two  years  ago.  He’s  a  singing 
teacher  here.  She  sent  for  me  to  come  and  live  with 
them.  I  help  her — especially  with  the  baby.” 

A  painful  thrill  passed  through  him.  “A  baby, 
eh  ?  And  you  like  it  ?” 

“Oh,  yes.  She’s  a  lovely  baby.  And  my  sister  is 
so  in  love  with  Harry — you  can’t  see  them  apart 
when  he’s  home.  And  he  is  with  her — the  same 
thing.”  She  sighed,  gazing  down  on  her  stubby 
fingers. 

Daniel  watched  her  face.  God,  what  a  life!  The 
air  about  her  palpitating  with  love.  Probably  hears 
their  kisses  at  night  in  her  room.  She  thinks  of 
nothing  else.  I’ll  find  out. 

“Don’t  you  want  to  get  married?” 

She  lifted  heavy  eyelids,  startled,  alert  to  push 
this  back  to  him  before  any  part  of  it  could  become 
hers.  “Oh,  no,  I  don’t!” 

“Why  not?”  I  shouldn’t  torture  her.  Why  do  I? 

“Because — oh — ”  She  twisted  her  shoulders 
from  side  to  side  and  he  saw  the  chiffon  over  her 
heart  quicken  in  its  perpetual  trembling. 

“Haven’t  you  ever  thought  of  it?” 

“Not  lately.  Once  at  home  I  was  engaged  to  a 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


239 


nice  fellow.  He  was  really  awfully  interesting. 
Only  he  wouldn’t  work.  He  carved  things  out  of 
little  pieces  of  wood.  You  know — like  animals  and 
things.  When  he  couldn’t  sell  them  he  used  to  cry. 
I  couldn’t  marry  a  man  like  that,  could  I?” 

“What  kind  of  man  do  you  like?” 

“Oh,  a  strong-minded  one,  I  guess.  I  like  to  see 
a  man  take  charge  of  things  and  order  everybody 
around.  I’m  foolish,  I  guess.”  She  stopped  and 
blushed  again,  the  color  staining  her  skin  from  neck 
to  forehead.  “I’m  bothering  you,  Mr.  Geer.  I’d 
better  go  on  home  now.” 

“No,  don’t  go.  I  like  to  hear  what  you  think 
about  things.”  That  fellow  must  have  been  like 
Sydney.  Wouldn’t  work.  Too  artistic  for  a  job. 
Cried.  I  bet  Sydney  cries,  too,  the  dirty - 

“Mr.  Trainer  will  be  coming  in.” 

“Miss  Elliot!”  He  unfolded  his  arms  and  bent 
toward  her  blouse.  “I  tell  you  what.  Have  dinner 
with  me  tonight.  We  can  talk  better  outside.  Will 
you  ?”  Why  not  take  her  ?  I  like  to  see  her  squirm. 

“Oh — why,  yes,  I’d  like  to,  Mr.  Geer.”  She 
opened  wide  happy  eyes  on  him. 

“Fine.  Go  get  your  hat.  I’ll  wash  up  right 
away.” 

She  went  to  the  door  on  her  high  heels,  and  called 
back,  “Here’s  a  messenger  with  a  letter.”  She 
brought  it  to  the  desk.  “I’ll  wait  down  at  the  door 
—shall  I?” 

Studying  the  unknown  feminine  writing  on  the 


240 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


envelope,  Daniel  answered  absently,  “Perhaps  that 
would  be  better.” 

The  letter  began  with  “My  dear  Mr.  Geer.”  He 
turned  to  the  signature — Elizabeth  Coming’s.  What 
can  she  want  with  me?  It  must  be  Amy.  She’s 
writing  for  Amy.  Blood  rushed  to  his  head  and  he 
felt  his  limbs  grow  weak.  A  faintness  seized  him 
and  his  head  began  to  throb  like  a  heart.  With 
shaking  hands  he  turned  again  to  the  salutation. 

“My  dear  Mr.  Geer — I  have  been  trying  to  de¬ 
cide  since  noon  whether  to  write  to  you.  I  know 
well  that  your  differences  with  Amy  are  no  affair  of 
mine.  Today  is  her  birthday  and  she  has  been  very 
sad.  I  am  unable  to  give  her  any  cheer,  although 
I  have  done  my  best.  Do  come  up  to  see  her — with 
appropriate  flowers — and  carry  her  off  to  dinner. 
Pay  no  heed  to  a  refusal  but  pick  her  up  and  take 
her  away  with  you.  Forgive  me  for  meddling. 
Sincerely  yours,  Elizabeth  Corning.” 

“356  East  58th  Street. 

He  bounded  from  the  chair  and  stood  by  the  win¬ 
dow,  the  letter  crushed  between  his  fingers.  She 
isn’t  sad  on  my  account.  The  effect  of  Sydney’s 
departure  for  Europe.  Serves  her  damned  right  to 
be  alone  on  her  birthday.  Let  her  stay  alone.  I 
won’t  go  near  her.  If  she  wants  to  see  me  she  can 
send  me  a  letter  written  by  her  own  aristocratic 
hand. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


241 


He  straightened  his  necktie  and  crossed  the  room 
to  lift  his  hat  from  its  nail.  She  deserves  to  be 
sad  on  her  birthday.  She  can  dissolve  in  her  tears 
for  all  I  care.  She  had  no  pity  for  me  when  I  was 
put  through  my  emotional  paces.  Fm  going  out  to 
dinner  with  a  girl  who  loves  me  and  doesn’t  want 
my  money. 

Thrusting  aside  a  boy  who  was  entering  with  a 
bundle  of  evening  editions,  he  hurried  through  the 
door  and  across  the  unventilated  city  room.  The 
odors  of  perspiration,  stale  smoke  from  pipes  and 
cigarettes,  glue  and  damp  ink  met  in  his  nostrils. 
Christ !  Why  don’t  they  put  in  shower  baths !  And 
wear  chiffon.  I’ll  dry  no  tears  tonight.  I’d  rather 
watch  Elliot  quiver  at  every  word,  repressions  eat¬ 
ing  her  like  flames.  Never  knew  the  birthday 
month.  Appropriate  flowers,  Corning  said.  Lilies, 
I  suppose,  for  her  belles  mains. 

He  passed  the  elevators  and  went  down  the  stairs 
with  rapid  steps.  Can’t  stand  being  bobbed  up  and 
down  in  a  lazy  elevator.  My  head  turning.  Get  out 
in  the  air.  Meet  a  woman  who  really  loves  me. 
The  other  can  go  to  hell. 

Miss  Elliot  was  standing  outside  the  entrance 
doors,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  folded.  A  leather 
handbag  swung  from  her  arm,  caught  in  the  bend 
of  her  elbow.  Her  blue  waist  made  a  patch  of  color 
against  the  gray  background  of  the  street.  Daniel 
went  to  her  side,  removing  his  hat  and  beating  a 
tattoo  on  it  while  he  spoke. 


242 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Er — that  letter —  It  was  from  my  wife.  She’s 
sick  and  wants  me  to  come  right  away.  I’m  sorry 
— some  other  time — ”  He  saw  her  eyes  spring 
away  from  his  before  he  turned  to  the  curb  and 
whistled.  A  taxi  stopped  with  a  grinding  of  brakes. 
He  jerked  at  the  door.  “Go  to  356  East  58th  Street 
And  stop  at  a  florist’s.” 


XVII 


Miss  Corning  received  him  in  her  small  stiff 
6itting-room,  amusement  and  sympathy  in  her  keen 
eyes.  Her  manner  was  business-like.  ‘Til  send  her 
in.  She’s  lying  down  and  saying  she  doesn’t  want 
any  dinner.” 

“Thank  you.”  He  put  down  his  hat  and  box  of 
flowers.  “You’ve  been  very  kind.  I’m  grateful.” 

“Oh,  I  didn’t  do  it  for  you,”  said  Miss  Corning 
cheerfully.  “I  want  Amy  to  get  her  life  settled. 
Either  be  married  or — get  a  divorce.” 

“Divorce!”  Daniel  stared  into  her  small,  sharp 
face.  “She  wants  a  divorce?”  He  stuffed  his  hands 
into  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat.  “Well,  she  can’t 
have  it !  She’s  coming  home  with  me.  Tonight!” 

Miss  Corning  smiled.  “That’s  a  matter  you’ll 
have  to  discuss  with  Amy.” 

He  watched  her  leave  the  room  with  the  erect  car¬ 
riage  of  a  spinster  who  does  not  wish  to  give  any¬ 
thing  of  herself  even  to  her  gait.  He  sat  down  on 
the  nearest  chair,  his  eyes  running  over  walls  and 
floor.  Five  minutes  passed.  He  got  up  and  paced 
the  room.  Turning  from  the  window,  he  saw  Amy 
standing  in  the  door. 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  soft  white  coat  he  had  not 


243 


244 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


seen  before.  Her  eyes  were  altered,  their  hardness 
now  a  calm  and  indifferent  gray  as  she  waited  for 
his  greeting.  He  could  not  give  her  words.  His 
throat  swelled  and  in  his  ears  pounded  the  surf  of 
a  struggling  sea.  She  came  in  rather  heavily  and 
sat  down  in  a  carved  black  chair,  looking  over  at 
him.  Her  hands  were  crossed  on  her  knees  and  she 
bent  forward  as  if  protecting  the  weight  of  her  body 
from  his  eyes. 

Power  returned  to  his  limbs  in  a  great  shock  that 
sent  him  forward  to  her  chair.  He  went  on  his 
knees  and  embraced  her  with  an  outbreak  of  hoarse 
words.  “Amy,  come  back  to  me!  Say  you’re 
through  with  that  man!  Don’t  you  care  for  me  at 
all,  darling?  Oh,  I’ve  gone  through  hell!  You 
don’t  know  how — I  love  you  with  every  breath.  It’s 
horrible  not  to  have  you.  You  need  me  how, 
darling,  to — you  must  let  me  take  care  of  you.”  He 
pressed  her  swollen  body  in  his  arms.  “My  poor 
little  girl’s  birthday  and  I  didn’t  know!  I  brought 
you  some  flowers,  darling — over  there  on  the  table. 
Tomorrow  you  can  choose  a  present — whatever  you 
like.”  He  lifted  her  hands  to  his  face  and  kissed 
them.  “Cold  on  a  day  like  this?  Why,  darling, 
you’ve  nothing  on  under  that  coat!  Hurry,  get 
dressed.  It’s  late.  You’re  coming  out  with  me.  I’ll 
carry  you  to  the  taxi.” 

She  stirred  in  the  belt  of  his  arms.  “Yes,  Daniel.” 
Her  foot  touched  his  knee  and  he  brought  his  hand 
down  to  her  ankle. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


245 


“No  stockings?”  He  lifted  her  foot  in  his  palm 
and  looked  down  at  her  pink  satin  mules.  “I  re¬ 
member  these.  You  wore  them  for  your  bath.  I 
always  liked  them  better  than  those  brocaded  things 
with  feathers.  You  seemed  unapproachable  with 
those  others.  Remember  how  you  used  to  say  ‘Mind 
my  hair,  Daniel  ?’  ”  He  swung  the  narrow  foot  in 
his  hand  and  pushed  up  the  edge  of  the  white  coat 
from  her  ankle.  “Blue  thin  veins  even  here.  Shin¬ 
ing  alabaster.” 

Amy  gave  a  faint  little  laugh.  “Don’t  be  silly. 
Alabaster  isn’t  the  same  color  at  all.”  Her  voice 
finished  in  a  little  roulade. 

Hearing  the  old  metallic  timbre  fired  him.  He 
snatched  off  her  slipper  and  bent  his  mouth  to  her 
foot.  His  hot  breath  beat  on  her  flesh  as  it  rushed 
in  and  out  of  his  lungs  in  great  shudders.  My  ges¬ 
ture  of  abasement.  Beatitudes  for  her  having  been 
born  for  my  hands.  Why  doesn’t  she  speak  again? 
Her  silence  is  bitter  but  beautiful.  Not  alabaster. 
Ivory,  cool  and  polished.  Again  in  my  arms  tonight 
— Amy — Amy - 

“Amy!”  He  raised  his  eyes  to  her  grave  face. 
“Tell  me  you’re  coming  home  tonight !  You  haven’t 
answered  me !  You  must  come — oh,  you  must,  dar¬ 
ling  !  I’ll  tie  you  up  and  carry  you,  gagged,  through 
the  streets!” 

She  placed  a  nerveless  hand  lightly  on  his  fore¬ 
head.  “Don’t  talk  so  wildly,  Daniel.  Yes,  I’ll  come. 
But  be  calm.  Now  let  me  dress  while  you  smoke  a 


246  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


cigarette.  There  are  some  of  the  kind  you  like  on 
that  table.” 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door  and  kissed  her, 
feeling  his  triumphant  blood  leap  through  his  veins. 
“Hurry,  Amy.  Hurry,  darling.” 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  “Be  reasonable,  Daniel. 
I  have  everything  to  do.” 

“But  you  might  change  your  mind.” 

She  met  his  gaze  with  sadness  in  her  eyes.  Her 
mouth  relaxed  wistfully.  “Are  you  sure  you  want 
me?  Would  you  want  me  no  matter  what  I’d 
done  ?” 

He  winced.  She  means  she  was  in  love  with 

Sydney.  He  may  have  kissed  her - “Yes,  Amy. 

I  can’t  get  free  of  you.  I  would  if  I  could — not  now 
— I  mean,  these  past  weeks - ” 

“Then  I  won’t  change  my  mind.” 

He  watched  her  go  down  the  hall,  walking  slowly 
and  conscious  of  her  sealed  and  hidden  burden. 


XVIII 


Mary  knocked  at  Daniel’s  door.  “Mrs.  Geer  says 
to  go  in  her  room  for  breakfast.” 

Opening  his  eyes,  he  called,  “Come  and  shut  my 
window.” 

Mary  crossed  the  room  primly,  a  plump  young 
woman  with  a  streak  of  dark  down  on  her  upper 
lip.  “It’s  cold  today,”  she  said. 

“Is  the  steam  on  yet?” 

She  pulled  down  the  window  and  closed  the  heavy 
curtains.  “Oh,  yes,  sir.  Day  before  yesterday. 
Mrs.  Geer  isn’t  going  to  get  up.  I’ll  fix  the  little 
table  by  her  bed.” 

“What  time  is  it?” 

“Almost  ten.  Mrs.  Geer’s  been  awake  since  nine.” 

“Well — bring  the  papers.”  He  yawned  and 
stretched  out  his  bony  legs  along  the  cold  sheets, 
then  drew  them  back  quickly  into  voluptuous  warmth. 
He  lay  on  his  back  and  surveyed  the  room’s  browns 
and  yeliows,  and  pleased  by  his  dresser’s  glass  top, 
the  toilet  articles,  padded  chairs,  the  table’s  brass 
bowl  filled  with  yellow  asters,  his  colored  books  in 
the  case  along  the  wall.  I,  the  living  force,  among 
my  dumb  servitors.  The  Sundays  I  lay  in  Newark 
on  an  iron  bed  and  gazed  at  a  scarred  yellow  wash- 

247 


248  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

stand,  my  chair  with  its  broken  cane  seat,  a  bit  of 
gray  matting  with  ravelled  edges.  Ruth  had  a  rag 
carpet  and  a  pink  bed  spread.  She  made  white 
curtains  with  dots  for  her  window.  Bessie  helped 
her.  Bessie  was  pretty.  Too  fat.  The  day  I  put 
a  baby  toad  down  her  neck.  Squealed  like  a  pig.  I 
should  have  kissed  her  instead.  Missed  her.  Missed 
Minnie,  too.  That  other  girl  with  black  hair  would 
have  been  appetising.  They  all  stayed  with  Ruth 
over  night.  But  what  does  one  know  at  that  age? 
I  must  have  been  seventeen  before  I  led  my  first 
into  the  old  daisy  field.  A  dog  was  barking.  I  felt 
her  heart  jumping  against  her  side.  It  had  been 
raining.  My  feet  were  wet.  The  old  leather  of  my 
shoes  smelled  like  her  father’s  harness  shop.  It 
embarrassed  me.  I  wanted  to  run  away.  The  moon 
came  up.  I  put  my  face  in  her  hair — the  smell 
made  me  drunk — we  sank  down  on  the  daisies - 

Mary  came  in  with  the  papers  and  laid  them,  cold 
and  damp,  on  his  bed.  “Breakfast’s  ready.” 

“All  right.  I’ll  take  my  bath  afterward.”  He 
flung  off  his  covers  and  stepped  into  slippers.  The 
dressing  gown  he  had  bought  for  the  honeymoon 
was  hanging  on  the  closet  door.  He  put  it  on  at 
the  mirror  before  combing  his  hair,  bending  forward 
to  examine  the  high  forehead,  persistent  nose  and 
straight  tight  mouth.  He  laid  down  the  comb  and 
pulled  his  hand  along  his  jaw.  It  grows  faster  as 
I  grow  older.  They  say  it  grows  after  you’re  dead, 
too,  when  no  barber  would  shave  you.  Mucous  mem- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


249 


branes  first  to  go.  Whiskers  the  last,  thrusting 
themselves  hopefully  through  leaking  flesh.  Na¬ 
poleon,  Voltaire  and  that  Swedish  king  all  had 
beards  when  they  were  dug  up.  By  the  beard  of  the 
prophet — by  the  post  mortem  beard  of  the  morti¬ 
fying  prophet.  The  sins  of  the  prophets  were  their 
beards. 

In  the  bathroom  he  washed  his  face  and  patted 
talcum  powder  on  his  cheeks  with  Amy’s  puff. 
I’m  not  hiding  a  bristle.  She’ll  see  them  all  and 
think  I  should  have  shaved  an  hour  ago.  She’s  had 
her  bath. 

He  looked  down  at  the  wet  towels  spread  along 
the  edge  of  the  tub  and  touched  one  with  his  finger. 
Then  he  hurried  to  Amy’s  door.  “I’ve  just  thought 
what  that  mysterious  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost 
might  be,”  he  said  going  to  her  bed.  “Whiskers.” 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  the  pillows  and  laid 
down  her  book.  “That’s  not  very  funny.”  But  she 
smiled.  She  had  pinned  up  her  hair  and  rouged  her 
mouth.  Her  hands  smelled  of  bottled  flowers. 
“Pour  the  coffee,  Daniel.  It’s  Sunday  and  I’m 
going  to  read  all  day.  Are  you  going  out?” 

He  kissed  her  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  “I  ought 
to  go  to  Newark.  What  do  you  think  ?  Did  I  tell 
you  mother  telephoned  yesterday?  Father  had  a 
heart  attack.  He’s  getting  on.  I  don’t  suppose 
he’ll  live  very  long.” 

Amy  shivered.  “You’d  better  go.  Don’t  have  any¬ 
thing  to  reproach  yourself  for  afterward.” 


250 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  looked  at  her  quickly.  “I’m  sorry  I  spoke  of 
it.  You  mustn’t  think  of  unpleasant  things.” 

Her  eyes  met  his  in  an  apprehensive  little  glance. 
She  took  up  her  spoon  and  began  to  sip  coffee.  He 
cut  an  orange  into  halves  and  sprinkled  them  with 
sugar.  “Daniel.” 

“Oh,  want  half  of  this?” 

“No.  I  wish  I  could  go  away  until  everything  is 
over.  Would  you  mind?  I’d  come  back  afterward 
strong  —  and  thin.  Think  of  being  thin  again, 
Daniel!” 

He  laid  down  his  spoon.  “Certainly  not.  You’re 
being  morbid.”  He  studied  her  face.  “What’s  the 
real  reason  you  want  to  go  away?”  She  did  not 
answer  but  lay  gazing  into  her  cup.  “Do  you  want 
to  get  away  from  me?” 

“No.  I— I - ” 

“Just  a  morbid  idea,  darling.  You  think  I  mind 
your  looking —  Say,  don’t  you  know  in  almost  all 
countries  women  are  proud  to  be  observed  when  they 


Her  face  was  sad  and  pointed  and  her  thin  eye¬ 
lids  drooped.  She  raised  them  presently  and  he  saw 
her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  He  leaned  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  on  her.  It  sank  into  the  silk 
coverlet.  “Don’t  worry  about  anything,  darling. 
You’ll  be  all  right.”  He  pressed  his  hand  down, 
then  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  “I  say,  but  that  baby 

is  going  to  be  a  whopper — and  only  six  months - ” 

She  turned  her  eyes  away. 


PART  III 


251 


I 


I 

Bob  Edmunds  came  slouching  into  the  office. 
The  worn  collar  of  his  overcoat  was  turned  up  and 
his  nostrils  were  as  pinched  as  if  the  month  had 
been  January  instead  of  a  rather  mild  November. 
His  eyebrows  were  pulled  together  over  sullen  wan¬ 
dering  eyes.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  spoke  with  a 
forced  enthusiasm.  “Howdy,  Dan.” 

From  his  chair  at  the  desk  Daniel  gave  him  a 
keen  appraisal.  “Sit  down,  Bob,  sit  down.  How’s 
everything  in  Jersey?” 

Edmunds  dragged  a  chair  across  the  floor.  It 
made  a  grating  penetrating  sound  that  gave  ears  to 
the  backbone.  He  set  his  shabby  shoes  beneath  the 
desk,  staring  at  them  and  scowling  away  from 
Daniel’s  gaze.  “Not  so  good.  Everyone’s  not  lucky 
like  you.”  He  seemed  to  be  turning  over  grievances 
in  a  cankered  mind  and  examining  again  their 
familiar  surfaces. 

“What’s  the  trouble,  Bob?” 

He  replied  in  a  grudging  voice,  “Well,  I  had  a 
couple  of  run-ins  with  old  Bill  McMahon.  You 
know  what  a  big  stiff  he  is.” 


253 


254 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Sure,  I  do.  Have  a  smoke.”  Daniel  pushed  a 
box  across  his  desk  and  Edmunds  dipped  in  fat 
fingers,  bringing  out  a  cigarette  and  lighting  it,  his 
breath  wheezing  through  hairy  nostrils  in  an  apathy 
of  repetition. 

Daniel  watched  his  face.  He’s  lost  his  job.  Got 
drunk  and  fell  down  on  an  important  story.  Old  Bill 
never  fired  a  man  for  less.  At  the  end  of  his  rope 
and  wants  me  to  put  him  on  for  old  time’s  sake. 
I’ll  tell  him  this  is  no  home  for  broken  down  re¬ 
porters.  “How’s  Effie?” 

“Effie’s  fine.  There’s  a  baby  coming  along.” 

Daniel  twisted  about  in  his  chair.  “There  is? 
Well,  well.  That’s  great.  Congratulations.  Say 
Bob.  You’re  not  the  only  one.” 

“You,  too  ?  Gosh,  Dan !  Well  what  do  you  think 
of  that?”  Then  he  looked  down,  his  face  setting  in 
bitter  lines.  “Huh!  It  wasn’t  bad  news  for  you! 
A  job  like  this — you  have  nothing  to  worry  about.” 

“No,  I  guess  I  haven’t.”  He  studied  Edmunds* 
frown,  his  tight  mouth  relaxing.  Annunciations 
among  males.  Hail,  thou  that  art  highly  favored, 
the  Lord  is  with  thee.  Our  pride  in  the  reproductive 
ability.  The  first  time  I’ve  felt  linked  with  him  in 
ten  years. 

Edmunds  drew  smoke  into  his  lungs  and  sent  it 
forth  in  a  faint  cloud.  He  cleared  his  throat.  He 
began  to  look  timidly  at  Daniel,  his  eyes  shamed  be¬ 
tween  their  fat  rims.  “Say,  Dan.  I  suppose  your 
staff’s  pretty  full?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


255 


Daniel  nodded.  “Full  up.”  He  paused  to  light  a 
cigarette.  Poor  devil,  that  must  have  cost  him  some¬ 
thing.  It  galls  him  to  see  my  success  and  think  that 
we  started  together  at  fifteen  per.  All  his  old  blus¬ 
ter  gone  now.  Guess  I’d  better  give  him  a  lift. 
“But  I  might  squeeze  you  in  somewhere  if  you’ll 
keep  sober.  How’s  forty  dollars?  And  if  you  be¬ 
have  yourself,  I’ll  boost  it  to  fifty  later  on.” 

Edmunds  slumped  in  his  chair.  “God,  what  a 
relief !  Effie’s  been  nearly  crazy.  I  didn’t  want  to 
tell  you — we’re  down  to  our  last  ten  dollars.”  Tears 
gathered  in  his  eyes.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
gripped  Daniel’s  arm. 

“Well,  now,  that’s  too  bad.”  Daniel’s  sympathy 
increased  Edmunds’  weak  emotion.  He  brought 
out  an  unironed  handkerchief  and  blew  into  it 
noisily,  shrinking  from  Daniel’s  eyes.  Daniel  looked 
away.  His  nerve  gone  from  bad  luck  and  bad 
whiskey.  If  he  doesn’t  pull  himself  together,  out  he 
goes.  I’ll  have  no  dead  wood  in  my  office,  not  if 
Effie  comes  through  with  triplets.  “Say,  you’d  bet¬ 
ter  take  something.  Will  twenty  fix  you  up?  You  can 
go  to  work  Monday.  But  I  want  it  back,  Bob.  Ten 
the  second  week,  ten  the  third.  Don’t  forget.” 

“You’re  a  prince,  Dan.  Maybe  Effie  won’t  say  a 
prayer  for  you!”  His  fat  cheeks  trembled  as  the 
muscles  worked  under  the  skin.  “Guess  I’ll  run 
along  now  and  telephone  the  girl.” 

“I’d  ask  you  to  lunch  if  I  had  time,”  said  Daniel. 
“But  it  can’t  be  done  today.  I’m  going  to  have  a 


256  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

sandwich  in  a  lunchroom  and  be  back  in  fifteen 
minutes.” 

“That's  all  right.  Seen  your  folks  lately?” 

“I  went  over  again  last  Sunday.  Father’s  break¬ 
ing  up  fast.  He  had  a  stroke  last  month.” 

Edmunds  wagged  his  head.  “Well,  we  all  got  to 
go,  Dan.  No  use  thinking  of  that.”  He  pulled 
down  his  hat  and  buttoned  his  coat.  “So 
long.  See  you  Monday.”  He  smiled,  his  lips 
spreading  away  from  the  edges  of  decayed  teeth. 
He  waved  his  hand  from  the  door  in  a  jaunty  fare¬ 
well  gesture. 

Daniel  went  to  the  washroom.  Typical  of  the 
tribe.  Now  that  he  has  a  job  and  thirty  dollars,  the 
worried  lines  are  disappearing.  All’s  well  and  the 
baby  will  be  born  and  cared  for  somehow.  There’s 
always  an  umbrella  offered  in  a  rain  storm  and  he 
knows  it. 

Trainer  was  washing  his  face,  his  thick  body  bent 
over  a  bowl.  He  cupped  up  water  in  his  hairy 
hands  and  breathed  in  snorts  of  discomfort.  Then 
with  eyes  squeezed  shut  he  stepped  away  and 
fumbled  for  an  end  of  the  roller  towel.  His  blind 
choice  fell  upon  a  soiled,  wet  spot  and  he  growled 
and  opened  his  eyes.  He  pulled  down  the  towel 
and  patted  his  face  dry.  Seeing  Daniel,  he  half 
smiled.  “They  tell  me  Slater’s  willing  to  patch 
things  up,”  he  said.  “I  guess  you  tamed  him,  all 
right.” 

“The  ads  go  hack  tomorrow,”  said  Daniel. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


257 

“Well,  I’m  glad  it  turned  out  that  way.”  He  pulled 
up  his  cuffs  and  turned  on  the  water. 

Trainer  dried  his  hands  and  looked  at  Daniel  with 
a  glimmer  of  admiration.  “He’s  been  a  terror  for 
years,”  he  said.  “Been  more  damned  trouble  than 
all  the  others  put  together.  We  always  gave  in 
before.  Once  we  had  to  fire  two  men.” 

“That  so?”  Daniel’s  tone  was  indifferent,  casual. 
He  mustn’t  see  I’m  pleased  he’s  lost  his  perpetual 
grouch.  If  he’s  playing  for  a  raise  he’ll  be  disap¬ 
pointed. 

“Ye-ah,  I  was  saying  only  this  morning  to  Stevens 
on  the  Trumpet  that  we  had  a  bright  young  man 
here.  That’s  right,  Mr.  Geer.” 

“Thanks.” 

Trainer  pulled  at  his  necktie  before  the  mirror. 
“I’d  like  to  talk  over  the  Hurley  case  with  you  to¬ 
night  and  hear  what  you  think.” 

Smiling,  Daniel  glanced  up  at  the  uncouth  reflec¬ 
tion  in  the  glass.  “I’m  going  to  stick  as  long  as  Mr. 
Bird  will  let  me.  Hurley’s  as  guilty  as  hell  and  we 
have  the  proofs.” 

“Say,  we’ve  had  the  proofs  of  cases  like  that  a 
dozen  times,”  said  Trainer.  “Locked  in  the  safe, 
too.  But  when  the  pressure  was  turned  on  we 
dropped  out — and  taxes  went  up.” 

“Why  mention  taxes?  You  know  you  don’t  give 
a  hang  about  the  ethical  side  of  it  as  long  as  you  can 
spring  a  good  scandal  story.” 

Trainer  rocked  back  and  forth  on  ungainly  shoes. 


258 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Of  course  not.  What  good  newspaper  man  does? 
Do  you  ?”  He  'brought  out  a  chocolate-colored  lump 
from  his  pocket  and  bit  into  it  with  stained  teeth. 

Drying  his  hands,  Daniel  said,  “I’m  afraid  I 
don't.  Not  nearly  enough.” 

“Not  enough,  eh?  Sounds  as  if  you  still  had 
some  of  your  fresh  young  ideals  left  from  college. 
Well,  I’ll  give  you  two  more  years  to  come  out  of 
that.” 

Daniel  went  to  the  door.  “You  can’t  tell,  Trainer. 
I  might  even  grow  some  new  ones.” 

Trainer,  following,  called  after  him,  “You  won’t 
last  long  on  this  sheet  if  you  do.” 


II 

In  a  small  lunchroom  across  the  square  Daniel 
ordered  an  omelette,  cheese  and  an  apple.  He  read 
as  he  ate,  pressed  between  two  girls.  They  passed 
salt  to  each  other,  striking  his  newspaper  with  each 
courtesy.  Annoyed,  he  put  the  apple  in  his  pocket 
and  went  to  the  desk  with  his  check.  He  offered  a 
bill  to  the  girl  cashier  and  she  slapped  down  some 
coins  on  the  corrugated  metal. 

“Hello  there !” 

He  sent  an  involuntary  glance  of  inquiry  into  her 
berry-black  eyes,  wondering  at  their  recognition. 
Then  he  saw  clipped  hair  in  stubby  points,  velvet 
skin  and  a  full-blown  mouth.  “Hello, ”  he  said. 
“Hello.”  He  could  see  in  her  stare  amusement  and 
a  certain  contempt.  “Well,  you  have  a  job  again.” 

“Yep.”  She  was  chewing  gum  indifferently,  as 
if  it  were  an  inseparable  part  of  her  duties.  She 
wore  a  pink  dress  with  a  muslin  ruff  at  the  neck 
and  no  sleeves.  Her  rounded  arms  were  of  flawless 
flesh.  “Still  mad?”  She  smiled  at  him  with  bright 
empty  eyes  and  showed  him  the  white  even  teeth  of 
a  peasant  girl.  “Gee,  you  were  hopping  that  night.” 

A  man  standing  behind  him  snickered  and  Daniel 
259 


26o 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


blushed.  He  straightened  his  shoulders.  “Who  stays 
mad  at  a  pretty  girl?”  He  spoke  to  buy  his  self- 
respect  from  a  stranger.  “Well,  be  good  and  hold 
down  your  job.”  He  started  away. 

“I’ll  do  that  little  thing,”  she  called  after  him. 
“So  long,  Danny.  Come  again.” 

He  hurried  into  the  street,  his  ears  tingling.  It 
fatigues  me  to  think  of  that  night.  My  cheap  stand¬ 
ards,  the  vulgar  invitation  to  the  dance  of  life.  No 
wonder  women  despise  men  in  their  hearts.  Almost 
any  man  can  be  put  into  leading  strings  of  lust.  In¬ 
tegrity  and  beauty  lost  for  a  ruttish  and  ridiculous 
moment  of  insane  ecstasy.  The  sea  becomes  calm, 
the  four  winds  die  down  but  the  storm  of  sex  is 
never  appeased.  Theocritus  said  winter  is  a  re¬ 
doubtable  evil  for  trees ;  for  springs,  a  drought ;  for 
birds,  the  snare;  for  wild  beasts,  the  net;  for  man 
the  desire  for  a  tender  maiden.  Suppress  this 
strongest  emotion  and  you  get  material  for  monas¬ 
teries.  Over-indulge  it  and  you  get  cases  for  pathol¬ 
ogy* 

In  the  square  a  bootblack  knelt  to  polish  the  shoes 
of  a  young  girl.  One  foot  placed  on  his  box,  she 
waited  stiffly,  a  newspaper  opened  in  her  hands. 
Two  men  stood  behind  her,  indicating  to  each  other 
with  furtive  grins  her  long  silk  stockings. 

Daniel  passed  with  tolerant  contempt.  Pinguid 
legs  still  an  aphrodisiac  to  that  type.  Well,  I  dare¬ 
say  it’s  healthier  than  reflections  in  the  ceilings,  the 
aperture  in  the  wall  and  the  prized  trapang  of  China. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


261 


Man,  the  cunning  carnivore,  turned  his  intelligence 
toward  stimulation  before  he  constructed  a  philo¬ 
sophic  system.  The  returns  were  more  immediate, 
more  pleasant,  for  the  cells  of  the  body  are  easier 
to  manage  than  those  of  the  mind.  Sex,  the  macula 
of  mankind,  spotting  even  the  thinkers  whose  abber- 
ations  were  infamous.  Even  noble  Aristotle?  I 
don’t  know.  I  like  to  think  of  him  as  a  lad  playing 
with  pebbles  on  an  Hellenic  beach,  his  hair  bound 
from  his  eyes  and  his  forehead  already  swelling  out 
above  the  brows,  loaded  with  unborn  wisdom.  Does 
nothing  matter  or  does  everything?  Even  that  we 
can  never  know  in  our  poverty.  And  one  day  after 
spent  humanity  has  perished  it  will  all  be  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  The  airless  earth,  lit  faintly  by  rays 
from  the  dying  sun,  will  roll  on,  ever  more  slowly, 
to  its  destruction  at  a  spot  already  fixed  in  the  uni¬ 
verse.  In  that  appointed  collision  the  bones  and 
musty  records  of  innumerable  races  of  men  will 
flame  into  gases.  Nothing  left  but  a  flash  of  light 
in  space  and  atoms  astonished  by  their  sudden 
speed. 

“Mr.  Geer !” 

Daniel  returned  to  himself  in  the  city  room.  A 
telephone  girl  was  signalling  him  from  her  cage. 
He  crossed  the  room.  “Yes,  what  is  it?” 

“Message  to  call  Dr.  Lane’s  hospital  as  soon  as 
you  come  in.  Shall  I  get  them  for  you?” 

“Yes.”  His  voice  came  weakly  from  his  throat 
and  his  premonition  crept  down  his  spine  in  an  icy 


262 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


contact.  He  felt  the  roots  of  his  hair  tickle  his  scalp 
like  quick  finger  tips.  ‘Til  take  it  in  that  booth.” 
He  walked  away  with  sagging  knees. 

A  young  reporter  came  along,  whistling  Annie 
Laurie.  He  made  for  the  booth,  pencil  and  paper 
in  his  hands.  He  reached  the  door  as  Daniel  came 
up.  Daniel  put  out  his  arm  and  pushed  him  away. 
Then  he  went  in  and  sat  down,  leaving  the  young 
man  to  stare  at  him  stupidly  through  the  glass  door. 
He  waited,  the  dumb  receiver  at  his  car.  About 
him  the  walls  were  marked  by  the  pencils  of  waiting 
reporters.  He  studied  the  initials  with  an  attention 
that  conveyed  nothing  to  his  numbed  brain.  The 
reporter  moved  away  and  the  receiver  became  ar¬ 
ticulate. 

‘‘Hello!  Who  wants  Dr.  Lane?” 

“This  is  Daniel  Geer,  doctor.  What's  happened? 
Anything  wrong  with  my  wife?”  His  voice  seemed 
tied  in  his  throat.  Each  word  required  a  separate 
gagging  effort.  He  made  a  grimace,  lifting  the 
muscles  of  his  stiff  face. 

“Nothing  wrong  so  far,  Mr.  Geer.  I  brought  her 
here  an  hour  ago.  She’s  beginning  to  have  pains 
pretty  regularly  now.” 

“But — but — something  must  be  wrong!  It  isn’t 
time  for - ” 

Dr.  Lane’s  voice  interrupted,  tolerant  and  amused. 
“I  guess  you  didn’t  count  right.  Now  don’t  worry 

_ a 

Daniel  shouted,  “Count  right!  We’ve  only  been 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  263 

married —  Something  must  be  wrong.  I’m  coming 
right  up.” 

The  pause  sang  in  his  ear.  Then  Dr.  Lane’s 
voice  ran  along  the  wire  again,  subtly  altered,  re¬ 
luctant.  “Well,  I  don’t  know — everything  seems  all 
right.  You’d  better  stay  where  you  are.  I’ll  keep 
you  informed.”  He  hung  up. 

Daniel  thrust  open  the  door  and  made  his  way 
through  the  city  room  to  his  office  door.  Outside  at 
a  small  desk  Miss  Elliot  sat  typing.  The  outlines 
of  her  fingers,  pecking  accurately,  were  blurred  by 
the  deft  speed  of  her  hands.  He  went  to  her  desk. 
“Can  you  come  in  a  moment?” 

She  glanced  up  at  him  and  her  hands  became  in¬ 
active  on  the  keys.  Her  eyes  resisted  his  distress. 
“All  right.”  Her  tone  was  sullen.  She  drew  in  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  and  looked  down  with  an 
offended  air  to  beat  out  another  sentence  in  a  rattle 
of  defiance.  Then  she  rose  and  picked  up  pencil 
and  notebook. 

He  waited  just  inside  the  door.  He  closed  it  as 
she  passed  in  and  stood  regarding  her  with  vacant 
eyes. 

“What  is  it,  Mr.  Geer?  Dictation?”  Her  voice 
was  full  of  distaste,  agitated.  She  held  herself 
rigidly  and  met  his  eyes. 

Walking  to  her  side  he  demanded  of  her,  “Don’t 
act  like  that !” 

Flames  sprang  up  in  her  eyes.  “I’ll  act  as  I 
please  !M 


264  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

He  made  a  swift  movement  toward  her  and  pulled 
her  to  his  side,  conscious  of  his  power  over  her.  He 
felt  the  heat  of  her  flesh  rush  into  his  hand.  “See 
here.  I’m  nearly  crazy.  Forget  everything  but  that 
for  a  moment,  will  you?” 

She  relaxed  in  his  hands,  still  sullen-eyed.  “What 
can  /  do  ?” 

“Do  you  know  anything  about  babies?  Your 
sister — is  a  premature  baby  dangerous  for  the 
mother?  My  wife — she’s  at  the  hospital — just  had 
word - ” 

Her  wrist  melted  into  his  palm.  Her  eyes 
stretched  wide,  growing  soft  and  suffused.  “Oh! 
I’m  so  sorry - ” 

“Is  it  dangerous?” 

“I  don’t  know.  I’ve  heard  of  two  babies  like  that. 
Everything  was  all  right,  I  guess.  They  have  in¬ 
cubators - ” 

His  fingers  were  still  digging  into  her  flesh.  He 
felt  her  vibrate  under  his  touch  as  if  he  were  sending 
an  electric  current  into  her.  Looking  down  he  saw 
in  her  eyes  a  cot  on  which  lay  a  woman  twisting  in 
agony.  Her  pain  ground  in  his  own  bones.  The 
faint  scent  of  roses  from  Miss  Elliot’s  hair  became 
in  his  nostrils  the  acrid  chemical  odor  of  a  hospital. 
The  red  mouth  brought  into  his  mind  blood  spilt  at 
births.  He  groaned  and  closed  his  eyes.  Amy, 
Amy!  I’d  do  it  for  you  if  I  could!  My  fault  and 
you  pay  for  it,  torn  and  rent  apart  for  answering  my 
pleas.  The  human  race  tortures  woman  as  we  all 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


265 


enter  the  world  through  the  same  small  gateway. 
How  rotten !  How  cowardly !  My  Amy,  my  beauti¬ 
ful  darling,  forgive - 

Miss  Elliot  was  speaking  in  a  soft  new  voice. 
“I’m  so  sorry.  It  must  be  terrible.,,  He  opened 
his  eyes  on  her  grief  and  she  threw  up  her  hand  and 
clung  to  his  shoulder,  trembling  and  pushing  her 
body  against  him. 

As  if  in  a  dream  and  without  sensation  for  his  act, 
Daniel  bent  his  stricken  face  and  kissed  the  girl’s 
warm  swelling  mouth.  He  felt  her  sink  down  and 
grow  weak.  She  clutched  the  cloth  of  his  coat  in 
her  fingers  and  pulled  at  it  with  little  jerks.  She 
began  to  sob,  “Oh,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !” 

“No — no,  you  don’t.  You  mustn’t  talk  like  that. 
Don’t  cry.  Stop  it!”  Her  tears  were  a  reminder 
and  a  reproach.  What  am  I  doing  with  this  strange 
body  in  my  arms?  Why  did  I  kiss  her?  Amy, 
Amy!  He  pushed  the  girl  aside  and  went  to  his 
desk.  He  pulled  down  the  lid  and  went  to  take  his 
hat  and  coat  from  their  nail.  “Now  you  and 
Trainer  get  out  the  paper.”  He  tried  to  hide  behind 
a  smile  and  watched  her  standing  miserably  where 
he  had  left  her,  sobbing  into  her  capable  hands.  On 
his  path  to  the  door,  he  halted  before  her  and  shook 
her  shoulder.  “Come,  now,  let’s  see  your  courage. 
What  if  you  had  to  go  through — think  of  poor  Mrs. 
Geer!” 

She  burst  out,  “Oh,  she’s  all  right!  She’s  lucky! 
You  love  her.” 


266 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


“Stop  it!”  He  shook  her  again.  “Of  course  I 
love  my  wife.  Now  be  a  good  girl  and  I’ll  call  you 
later  on  the  telephone  and  see  how  everything  is 

getting  on.  I’ll  ask  for  you - ” 

“A  telephone  call!”  She  seemed  falling  into  a 
spasm  of  rage.  “What  good  is  a  telephone  call !” 

He  snapped  out,  “You’re  being  ridiculous!  Why 

anyone  walking  in  here  now  would  think - !”  He 

pulled  open  the  door,  and  hurried  out. 


Ill 


He  sat  in  an  anteroom  of  gray,  enamelled  walls, 
gazing  fixedly  at  the  secretary  at  work  by  the  win¬ 
dow,  following  each  gesture,  each  flutter  of  her 
fingers,  each  change  in  the  folds  of  her  stiff  dress 
as  it  moved  with  her  breathing.  That’s  what  they 
call  efficiency.  Playing  chess  with  dates  and  room 
arrangements  while  I  wait  here  forgotten.  I  sup¬ 
pose  she’s  long  since  grown  contemptuous  for  im¬ 
portunate  husbands  and  lives  alone  with  an  emascu¬ 
lated  tomcat.  What  a  stink  of  stale  drugs!  Their 
odor  kills  smell  of  blood  and  severed  flesh.  Cancer 
has  a  penetrating  smell.  They  say  you  never  forget 
it.  All  flesh  smells.  The  Chinese  say  white  men 
smell  like  corpses.  But  they  never  hold  their  noses 
in  their  own  sewage-strewn  streets.  I’d  better  speak 
to  that  dried  prune  again.  She’ll  wait  until  they 
won’t  let  me  go  up.  It  may  be  coming  now.  No. 
Never  comes  with  a  rush.  Only  by  a  slow  grinding 
debouchment.  Grinding  open  joints  by  the  force  of 
pushing  muscles.  Horrible  barricade,  red  as  hell. 
Bloody  life  soaking  out,  leaving  emptied  veins. 
Purple  distended  flesh  framing  a  pulp.  Germ  be¬ 
comes  pulp.  Pulp  grows  into  Pascal — me — every¬ 
body — 


267 


268 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


He  left  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  desk,  “Please 
ask  if  I  may  see  my  wife.” 

She  looked  up  with  hard  bright  eyes  behind 
their  glasses.  “I’ve  sent  up  word  to  Dr.  Lane. 
You’ll  have  to  wait.”  She  looked  down  at  her 
charts. 

Daniel  turned  back  to  his  chair.  Damn  these  cold¬ 
blooded  women.  Harder  than  men.  A  woman  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  sensitive  and  sympathetic.  Argument 
against  putting  them  on  juries.  She’d  make  a  good 
foreman.  Bet  she  never  had  a  lover.  She’d  think 
love  was  vulgar.  Funny  she  has  a  job  around  the 
results  of  it.  Wonder  if  I  dare  make  a  break  for  the 
stairs.  She  couldn’t  stop  me.  An  outrage  to  keep 
a  man  from  his  wife  at  such  a  time! 

Dr.  Lane,  tall  bald  and  bored,  came  in  through 
swinging  doors.  He  gave  Daniel  a  soft  disapprov¬ 
ing  hand.  “Now  don’t  get  nervous,  Mr.  Geer. 
Nothing  to  worry  about.  You  can  come  up  for  a 
few  minutes  if  you  like.” 

Daniel  followed  him,  expecting  to  be  ushered  with 
whispers  into  a  darkened  room.  Instead  the  win¬ 
dows  were  open  and  in  the  sunlight  Amy  was  walk¬ 
ing  up  and  down.  A  nurse  was  mixing  something 
in  a  glass.  A  casual  air  of  leisure  lay  over  the  slow 
activities  of  the  women — Amy’s  heavy  step,  the 
nurse’s  small  movements  concerned  with  goblet  and 
spoon.  They  turned  their  eyes  to  the  door  and  Amy 
leaned  her  ponderous  body  against  the  foot  of  the 
bed  as  if  bracing  herself  for  an  attack  on  her 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


269 


strength.  She  wore  a  fur  coat  that  covered  a  check¬ 
ered  silk  bathrobe  of  gay  colors.  Neither  fur  nor 
silk  met  across  her  distended  abdomen  and  a  strip  of 
rose  chiffon  revealed  the  drum-tight  skin.  As 
Daniel  came  to  her,  she  looked  at  him  with  quivering 
eyes.  Her  face  wore  a  strained  bloodless  expres¬ 
sion. 

Standing  at  her  side,  he  stared  at  her,  feeling  a 
chilling  constraint  in  the  presence  of  the  vested  au¬ 
thority  at  his  back.  His  passionate  questions,  solici¬ 
tude,  the  burn  of  his  anxiety,  were  checked  by  the 
sound  of  Dr.  Lane  clearing  his  throat.  He  asked  in 
an  uncertain  voice,  “What  has  gone  wrong?  Did 
you  fall?  Shouldn’t  you  be  in  bed?” 

“I — I — ”  Her  gaze  leaped  over  his  shoulder  in  an 
apprehensive  look  at  Dr.  Lane,  a  glance  that  seemed 
to  appeal  for  silence  and  solitude.  For  a  moment 
no  sound  was  in  the  shining  room.  Then  the  spoon 
tinkled  against  the  glass  in  the  nurse’s  hands  and 
Amy  drew  a  deep  breath.  “Please  go  away,  Daniel. 
It’s  all  right.  Don’t  talk  to  me  now — please,  please ! 
I  can’t — oh,  please  go !”  She  clasped  her  hands  in  a 
trembling  gesture  of  entreaty. 

Daniel  turned  from  her  to  the  doctor.  “Will  it  be 
a  bad  case,  doctor?  Perhaps  you’d  better  get  in  a 
specialist - ” 

The  doctor  moved  forward,  his  eyes  steely  in  a 
bland  professional  face.  “Why,  there’s  nothing  to 
get  excited  about.  She’s  getting  on  all  right.” 

Daniel  gave  him  an  insulting  glance.  “Nothing 


270 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


to  get  excited  about  in  a  premature  birth?  I  know 
better  than  that !” 

Amy  lunged  forward  and  seized  his  arm.  ‘Til  be 
all  right,  Daniel.  Please  don’t  stay  any  longer.  I 
must  have  quiet — my  nerves — oh,  go  away,  go 
away!”  She  swayed  and  a  chalky  whiteness  settled 
over  her  face.  Lines  of  pain  appeared  about  her 
mouth.  She  lifted  her  hands  and  pressed  them  into 
her  abdomen.  Her  body  grew  rigid  and  she  began 
to  gasp  and  whimper.  Then  a  loud  cry  burst  from 
her  compressed  lips.  And  another.  A  third. 

A  sense  of  fear  passed  through  Daniel  in  a  spas¬ 
modic  wave.  He  was  as  pale  as  she.  “Oh,  my  God, 
doctor,”  he  said,  “this  is  horrible — horrible !  Can’t 
you  do  something?”  The  doctor  looked  at  him  with 
unmoved  face.  The  nurse  went  on  stirring  her  mix¬ 
ture  without  haste,  calmly.  Daniel  turned  again  to 
Amy  and  went  weakly  to  her  side.  His  arms  lifted 
themselves  to  embrace  her. 

She  gave  another  cry  and  bent  forward,  her  eyes 
opaque  with  pain.  “Go  away!  Doctor,  take  him 
away !”  The  words  screamed  into  his  face,  sent  him 
half  way  across  the  room.  The  doctor  met  him  and 
pulled  his  arm.  “You’ll  have  to  go  now.  Miss 
Brant,  have  Mrs.  Geer  lie  down.  I’ll  make  an  ex¬ 
amination.”  He  dragged  Daniel  to  the  door,  opened 
it  and  pushed  him  into  the  corridor. 

Daniel  swung  about  with  waving  arms  but  the 
door  closed  sharply  on  his  protest.  He  stood  gaz¬ 
ing  at  its  whiteness.  Christ !  She’s  still  screaming. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


271 


That  damned  quack  throws  me  out  of  my  own  wife’s 
room  like  a  professional  bouncer !  I  won’t  stand  for 
it.  I’ve  got  a  right  to  be  in  there ! 

He  seized  the  knob  and  turned  it.  The  door  held 
firmly.  It  was  locked.  He  shook  it  and  rattled  the 
knob.  He  knocked  and  pounded  on  the  thick  panels. 
No  one  opened  to  him.  He  heard  the  rush  of  feet 
beyond  the  curve  in  the  corridor.  A  big  man  in  a 
white  coat  and  a  woman  in  uniform  appeared.  The 
man  bolted  at  him  and  thrust  him  from  the  door, 
his  face  hot  and  glowering. 

“What  the  hell’s  the  idea?”  he  demanded.  “Don’t 
you  know  you’re  in  a  hospital  ?” 

Daniel  faced  him  and  shouted,  “That’s  all  right! 
My  wife’s  being  murdered  in  there !  I  guess  I  got  a 
right  to - ” 

“You  get  out  of  here,”  said  the  man  brutally.  He 
stood  over  Daniel  with  the  imminent  destructive  po¬ 
tency  of  a  leaning  tower,  the  nurse,  buttress-like,  at 
his  back. 

Daniel  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away  with 
quick  hard  steps. 


IV 


Central  Park  was  dank  with  a  cold  mist  that 
had  penetrated  Daniel’s  clothing  and  lay  as  close  to 
his  skin  as  a  cerement.  He  had  been  sitting  on  a 
bench  during  hours  that  had  followed  other  hours  of 
wandering  beneath  stripped  trees,  along  paths 
patched  with  broken  shadows  and  Tyrian  purple  re¬ 
flections  from  the  electric  lamps.  Other  men  sat  on 
scattered  benches,  all  staring  ahead,  alone  in  their 
dreaming,  each  with  a  face  of  torpid  tragedy.  He 
eyed  them,  dizzy  with  cold,  through  bleared  eyes. 
When  idle  the  intelligent  and  the  stupid  act  alike. 
On  a  beach  both  men  throw  stones  into  the  water, 
the  stupid  man  in  volatile  contentment,  the  other  with 
urticating  thoughts  that  he  tries  to  send  forth  with 
each  stone.  Here  sit  some  hazy  figures,  inactive,  un¬ 
distinguished  one  from  the  other,  each  of  us  busy 
with  a  contemplation  of  his  life.  My  new  triad, 
their  unpaid  rent  or  unloving  wives.  These  blurred 
faces  under  the  trees  hold  all  the  latency  of  a  tene¬ 
brous  race  waiting  in  the  Hyrcynian  wood  of  the 
ancient  world  for  a  sign  from  their  burly  gods — 
still  believing,  potentially  apostate,  threaded  by  a  net¬ 
work  of  weak  emotions.  I,  the  strong  ego,  rest 
among  these  passive  men,  paralyzed  by  my  memory 
of  Amy’s  cries.  The  travesty  of  sex  dies  les  fem- 


272 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


273 


mes.  What  do  they  get  from  our  rapacious  rapture 
that  fills  the  heavens.  A  pain  in  the  belly.  The  pa¬ 
tience  of  the  plastic  female  insures  continuation.  A 
man  would  let  the  race  extinguish  itself  before  sub¬ 
mitting  rubric  births  and  I  call  it  a  damned  good 
idea.  The  anguish  of  a  difficult  delivery  ought  to 
cloy  the  pain-lust  of  a  Caligula,  a  Claudius  or  even 
old  Cheon-sin  Yeow-wang  himself.  The  Chinese 
the  Worst  for  that  sort  of  thing.  I  wonder  if  they 
held  child-birth  exhibitions  in  their  torture  gardens 
along  with  demonstrations  of  hot  pliers,  hanging 
hooks,  wheels,  dropping  water,  racks,  screws  and 
spikes.  The  torment  of  the  victims’  severed  nerves 
reacting  pleasurably  upon  certain  nerves  of  the  on¬ 
lookers.  A  pleasure  as  old  as  mankind.  Only  pity 
is  new,  having  been  made  fashionable  by  a  gentle 
Jew. 

He  moved,  unbuttoning  his  coat  and  drawing  out 
his  watch.  He  held  the  disk  in  the  palm  of  his  hand 
and  watched  the  light  dance  on  the  glass.  Eleven 
o’clock.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  struck  out  across 
the  park  in  a  dedalous  path.  The  mist  had  turned  to 
fine  lines  of  rain  that  were  blown  into  his  face  by 
a  rising  wind.  He  began  to  shiver,  quickening  his 
step  as  the  edge  of  the  park  came  into  sight.  An 
emergence  from  my  lethargy.  I  feel  again  fatigue 
and  a  renewal  of  anxiety.  She  must  not  guess  that 
I  sat  quiescent  through  the  hours  of  her  anguish, 
forgetting  the  horror  of  nature’s  immutable  pro¬ 
cesses.  The  weight  of  gestation,  the  blood  and  slime 


274 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


of  parturition.  Ugh!  The  thought  is  as  good  as 
a  dose  of  ipecac.  The  same  for  all  and  no  escape. 
The  red  woman  in  the  lice-lined  blanket  of  her  wig¬ 
wam  and  my  Amy  in  a  tiffany  nightgown,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  the  luxurious  obstetrical  instruments  of 
civilization. 

He  stepped  from  under  dripping  trees  into  Central 
Park  West  and  looked  at  the  mackle  of  buildings, 
shining  vaguely  in  the  rain.  Not  a  taxicab  in  sight. 
Motion  might  appease  my  torment  until  I  learn  of 
hers.  I’d  better  telephone  first  and  avoid  more  in¬ 
sults  from  those  institutional  machines. 

He  crossed  the  street  and  entered  a  drug  store. 
His  heart  thumped  in  disordered  beats  as  he  gave 
the  number.  Minutes  of  waiting.  His  body  tingled 
and  great  drops  of  sweat  burst  through  his  pores. 
His  blood  leaped  upward  and  collected  in  his  head, 
a  surging  fountain  that  spurted  its  strength  against 
his  eyes.  He  closed  them  in  pain.  His  mouth 
parched  suddenly  and  he  felt  about  with  his  tongue 
for  moisture.  Struggling  against  the  intolerable 
pain  in  his  head,  he  sent  forth  a  question.  “How  is 
Mrs.  Geer?” 

“Just  a  minute.  Hold  the  wire.” 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  temples.  A  bloody  foetus. 
A  caricature  of  man.  It  gasps,  wriggles,  waves 
blind  hands  and  feet.  It  holds  the  secrets  of  races 
past  and  the  seed  of  mankind’s  future. 

“Mrs.  Geer  is  doing  very  well.  The  baby  was 
born  at  eight  o’clock.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


275 


“Oh.  That’s  fine.  Is  it — a  boy?” 

“No.  A  girl.” 

“Oh.” 

“Is  this  Mr.  Geer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,  Miss  Brant  said  to  tell  you  you  can  come 
to  see  your  wife  in  the  morning.” 

“All  right.” 

He  put  the  receiver  back  on  its  hook  and  sat 
staring  at  it.  A  heavy  cramping  sensation  gripped 
his  stomach.  The  booth  grew  dark.  He  bent  his 
head  down  on  the  little  shelf  by  the  telephone  and 
began  to  sob  in  gulps  that  shook  his  body  like  an 
ague. 


V 


Amy's  chalk- white  face  was  framed  to  pathos  by 
two  bright  braids  that  had  successfully  fought  for 
their  allotment  of  her  vitality.  As  Daniel  came  to 
the  bed,  she  smiled  and  nodded  at  the  yellow  roses  in 
his  hands.  “Thank  you,”  she  said  in  a  frail  voice. 
“What  lovely  color!” 

Daniel  took  off  his  overcoat,  looking  at  the  nurse. 
She  obeyed  his  eyes  and  went  to  the  door.  It  closed 
behind  her  with  a  cautious  click.  He  went  on  his 
knees  beside  the  bed.  “Was  it  very  dreadful,  dar¬ 
ling?”  She  twisted  her  lips  and  he  lifted  her  pale 
hands  and  pressed  them  to  his  mouth.  “Forgive 
me !”  Now  it  was  over,  and  he  saw  her  lying  pite¬ 
ously  drained,  he  stabbed  himself  with  reproaches 
for  his  calm  hours  in  the  park.  It  isn’t  just.  I 
should  be  made  to  suffer  her  pangs.  Tears  stung 
his  lids  as  he  looked  into  her  haggard  face  on  the 
pillow,  the  eyes  lusterless,  even  bored,  now  that  their 
necessity  to  reflect  pain  had  passed — too  sapped  of 
strength  to  move  over  him. 

“Don’t — it’s  finished  now.”  Her  hand  stirred  in 
his  and  he  squeezed  it  cruelly  in  his  fingers.  “Daniel, 
mamma  is  coming  this  afternoon.  Will  you  make 
her  comfortable?”  Her  voice  wavered,  rising  and 
falling  from  effort  to  weakness. 

“Yes,  dear.  Don’t  think  of  anything  except  get- 
276 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


277 


ting  strong  again.”  He  rose  from  his  knees,  keep¬ 
ing  her  hands  in  his  and  looking  about  the  room. 
“Amy — where  is — it?” 

She  drew  a  quick  breath.  “Outside.  They  keep 
them  in  a  sun  parlor.” 

A  picture  formed  before  his  eyes.  Rows  and 
rows  of  blind  babies,  sleeping  with  their  puckered 
faces  turned  toward  streaming  sunlight. 

Amy  spoke  again.  “I  won’t  have  my  daughter 
called  ‘it/  Daniel.” 

He  smiled  down  on  her  effort  at  gaiety.  “Well, 
I’d  like  to  see — her.”  He  waited,  then  added  an 
anxious  question.  “Is  she  healthy?” 

Before  Amy  could  speak,  the  nurse  came 
through  the  door  with  an  important  bustle.  She 
held  a  white  bundle  in  her  arms.  Coming  to  the  bed, 
she  laid  it  down  and  turned  to  a  table.  She  dipped 
cotton  into  a  glass  of  white  liquid  and  returned  to 
interpose  her  rotund  starchiness  between  Daniel  and 
the  pillows.  Then,  opening  Amy’s  nightgown  at  the 
neck,  she  bent  down  in  some  mysterious  rite  of  hy¬ 
giene. 

Daniel  came  forward,  stepping  on  his  toes,  and 
stared  at  the  vibrating  little  bale  on  the  bed.  It  had  a 
purplish,  unhappy  face,  as  wizened  as  a  monkey’s 
muzzle.  Its  mouth  was  like  a  small  purple  grape.  As 
he  gazed,  the  grap  split  open  and  the  edges  moved 
out  and  in  with  a  sucking  motion.  Daniel’s  pale  eyes 
spread  wide  and  he  felt  disgust  and  awe.  Like 
a  tentacle  searching  for  food.  The  first  instinct. 


278  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

And  the  last.  Like  father’s  clinging  appetite.  A  tiny 
female  ape.  A  son  would  have  been  more  intimate. 
This  girl  will  be  like  Amy,  mysterious,  removed,  an¬ 
other  female  counted  for  the  enemy’s  side  like  an 
Amazon  baby.  Those  women  kept  the  female  off¬ 
spring  for  their  army  and  destroyed  the  males  at 
birth. 

The  nurse  lifted  the  baby  and  put  it  at  Amy’s 
breast.  The  small  purple  grape  clung  there,  dilat¬ 
ing  and  closing  as  it  fed  in  chiffon  and  lace.  Amy 
with  enchanted  face  closed  her  eyes  and  sheltered  the 
mottled  head  with  her  hand  in  a  gesture  of  isolating 
tenderness. 

“Isn’t  she  sweet?”  cried  the  nurse  with  a  fluttering 
look  for  Daniel.  “She’ll  soon  get  nice  and  fat,  bless 
her  dear  little  heart !”  Her  tone  was  professionally 
enthusiastic.  Mothers  and  babies — bills  and  sala¬ 
ries — gratuities  of  gratitude. 

Daniel  watched  the  sucking  grape,  his  heart  con¬ 
tracting  at  the  intimacy  of  Amy’s  physical  bond  with 
her  child.  His  eyes  passed  over  the  miniature  head 
where  a  plume  of  fine  hairs  lay  in  a  line  across  the 
veined  flesh.  He  put  out  his  fingers  and  touched  the 
silky  line.  “Amy,”  he  said.  “Amy.”  His  tone  was 
soft  and  wondering.  “Look,  darling.  It’s  black.” 

Amy  opened  her  eyes.  “I  thought  you’d  speak  of 
that,”  she  said.  “My  father  was  dark.  Is  your 
mother  dark  ?  Or  your  father  ?” 

‘They’re  gray  now,”  said  Daniel.  “But  father 
had  dark  hair.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


279 


She  smiled  and  relaxed  into  the  pillows.  “That’s 
it.  Two  dark  grandfathers.”  Her  arms,  two 
swaddling  bands  of  white  bloodless  flesh,  went 
tighter  about  her  child.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
seemed  to  dream  behind  their  thin  lids. 

The  nurse  passed  from  the  room,  clicking  the 
door.  Daniel  bent  forward  and  studied  the  baby’s 
busy  scarlet  face.  It  looks  the  same  as  the  new-born 
beads  on  Ruth’s  rosary  of  reproductions.  They’re 
all  alike  the  first  six  months.  Then  father’s  nose  or 
mother’s  chin  can  be  traced  by  doting  eyes.  This 
might  be  any  man’s  baby  instead  of  mine.  Sydney’s 
for  instance.  He  has  black  hair.  Syd-neeee.  “It’s 
Sydney,  isn’t  it?  I  thought  you’d  be  coming  in  to¬ 
night,  my  dear.”  Over  the  teacups — a  Greek  smile 
for  the  bull  in  the  Chinese  pottery.  “ . mediae¬ 
val  sonorities . a  Chartres  portal  .  .  .  .  ”  La¬ 

tin  orums  and  ixes.  The  telegram  to  Atlantic  City. 
Old  Rufus  saying,  “The  flowers  are  from  young 
Harrington.”  The  night  he  kissed  her  wrist — “A  de- 
main”  His  confusion  in  Boston  when  I  went  to 
fetch  her  back.  The  lilies  like  her  beautiful  hands. 
Her  mother’s  letter  about  time  curing  everything. 
From  her  faint  she  called  out  “Sydney.”  And  now  a 
black-haired  baby  seven  months  after  marriage.  It’s 
curious  how  circumstances  that  make  up  evidence 
may  be  diverted  from  their  just  positions.  Lucky 
for  her  that  this  Daniel,  coming  to  the  judgment,  is 
wise  enough  to  ask  the  name  of  the  tree  and  save 
another  innocent  Suzannah  from  the  elders.  No 


280 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


more  preposterous  idea  ever  wedged  itself  into  a 
man’s  mind.  Two  dark  grandfathers  make  one  dark 
grandchild.  And  I  love  my  wife  above  suspicion. 

He  unclasped  his  hands.  The  palms  were  cold 
and  wet.  He  came  forward  and  asked  without  in¬ 
tention  or  warning  within  himself,  “Amy,  is  this 
child  mine  or  Sydney’s?” 

Her  eyes  sprang  to  attention  but  she  returned  his 
gaze  without  any  change  of  expression,  almost  as 
if  it  had  been  a  question  for  which  she  had  been 
waiting.  Her  mouth  began  to  relax  presently,  as  it 
might  have  were  a  secret  tension  removed.  She 
smiled.  “Why,  Daniel !”  Her  voice  was  fainter  than 
it  had  been  the  last  time  she  had  spoken.  The  arms 
that  wrapped  the  baby  began  to  tremble.  “What  a 
question !”  She  sent  out  a  little  bleat  of  a  laugh.  “Is 
that  a  joke  to  cheer  me  up  ?  You  have  a  curious  idea 
of  humor  today.”  Suddenly  her  smile  seemed  like 
the  good-nature  an  artist  paints  on  a  mask.  It  had 
turned  in  a  moment  from  soft  amusement  to  a  white 
wooden  expression  of  false  mirth. 

He  continued  to  look  into  her  face,  his  mouth 
open.  Something  was  pressing  upon  his  heart  with 
a  bitter  weight  that  stopped  his  breathing.  The  tide 
in  his  veins  grew  sluggish  and  cold.  Then  a  curtain 
of  red  haze  snapped  up  into  place  before  his  eyes. 
Through  it  he  saw  a  scarlet  Amy  with  a  black  child 
at  her  breast.  She  was  clutching  at  it  with  straining 
arms  as  if  to  protect  it  from  a  calamity. 

He  sprang  at  her  and  shook  her  shoulder.  “The 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


281 


truth!  Don’t  lie  to  me,  damn  you!  Does  this  be¬ 
long  to  me  or  your  lover  ?” 

Her  mouth  loosened.  Under  the  skin  of  her  cheek 
a  little  nerve  twitched,  moving  the  flesh.  The  life  in 
her  eyes  went  out  like  a  light.  The  lids  fell.  Her 
head  rolled  to  one  side  and  the  muscles  of  her  body 
relaxed  with  the  slow  motion  of  a  punctured  balloon. 
The  baby,  unsupported,  slipped  down  on  the  bed.  It 
sucked  at  the  air  and  made  little  wheezing  sounds  of 
protest. 

Daniel  brought  back  his  hand  from  her  limp  flesh. 
He  was  shivering  in  an  icy  sweat.  His  teeth  clicked 
in  regular  rhythm.  He  groaned,  “Oh,  my  God,  oh, 
my  God,  oh,  my  God.”  Knee-high  to  him,  Amy  lay 
like  a  corpse.  A  narrow  rim  of  white  showed  be¬ 
tween  her  eyelids.  Her  hair  was  spread  like  blood 
on  her  forehead.  All  at  once  the  room  seemed  to 
him  small  and  monotonous  in  its  whiteness.  He 
wanted  to  jump,  to  run,  to  feel  his  muscles  spring 
and  jerk  back  to  the  bones.  The  motionless  body  on 
the  bed  infuriated  him.  Action  was  what  he  had  ex¬ 
pected  from  it.  The  angry  movements,  the  fierce 
words  of  a  woman  unjustly  accused.  This  swoon 
seemed  a  sign  of  a  crushed  humility,  an  admission 
of  guilt. 

He  went  to  the  table  and  took  up  the  glass  of 
white  liquid.  Holding  it  over  her  face,  he  watched 
the  drops  splash  and  roll  from  her  forehead  into  the 
pillow.  She  seemed  not  to  breathe.  For  a  moment 
he  considered  a  bell  that  was  enamelled  into  the  wall 


282 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


by  her  bed.  Then  he  leaned  forward  and  pressed 
his  finger  to  the  button. 

He  was  still  ringing  when  Miss  Brant  burst  into 
the  room.  “For  the  Lord’s  sake,  what  happening?” 
she  cried.  Her  alarm  and  interest  were  as  profes¬ 
sional  as  her  enthusiasm  for  the  baby  had  been. 
“Stop  ringing  that  bell !”  She  examined  Amy  in  a 
series  of  pats  and  glances.  “Only  weakness,”  she 
said.  “See,  she’s  coming  round.” 

Daniel  muttered,  “I’ll  go.  Telephone  later,”  and 
went  to  the  door,  his  joints  stiff  with  pain.  He  felt 
he  had  been  in  the  room  for  uncounted  and  heavy 
hours. 

Miss  Brant  laughed,  an  arid  cackle  of  amusement. 
“Guess  she  frightened  you,”  she  said.  “You  look 
kind  of  white.  There  she  is !  My !  You  scared  your 
husband  half  to  death.” 

Daniel,  fixed  at  the  open  door,  found  Amy’s  face. 
From  aching  eyes  he  gave  her  a  long  intense  look 
that  was  filled  with  reproach  for  her  and  for  him¬ 
self.  Her  eyes  in  return  offered  him  no  defence,  no 
regret.  They  lay  in  her  head  like  dull  green  stones, 
apathetic,  regardless  of  time  or  events  that  had  once 
flicked  her  into  life. 

Miss  Brant  moved  across  the  room  and  stopped  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Daniel  saw  her  starched  wide 
back  at  the  place  where  Amy’s  eyes  had  been.  He 
turned  without  speaking  and  went  away  on  burdened 
feet. 


VI 


The  orchestra  drummed  and  blared.  The  heavy  air 
vibrated  with  syncopated  sounds.  Twisted  threads 
of  smoke  floated  about  Daniel’s  head.  He  pressed 
his  hands  to  his  temples  and  tried  to  think  away 
from  the  broken  rhythms  of  the  chorus. 

“Da  da-da-da  da-da-da.”  The  girl  opposite  him 
was  singing.  Annoyed,  he  raised  his  blood-shot 
eyes  and  looked  across  the  table.  “Gee,  that’s  a  swell 
dance,”  she  said.  “Da  da-da  da-da-da  da-da-da.” 

He  nodded  and  brought  down  his  numbed  arms 
to  the  wood.  “Sorry  I  don’t  dance.” 

“Well,  it  don’t  interfere  with  your  drinking,”  she 
said.  “Guess  I’ll  have  a  little  sip — that  is,  if  there’s 
any  left.” 

“Plen — plenty,”  said  Daniel.  “Brought  two  flasks. 
Here — ”  He  wrapped  a  napkin  about  the  shining 
silver  bottle  and  held  it  out.  Shaking  back  the  blunt 
black  points  of  her  hair,  she  lifted  the  flask  and 
drank.  “Ooo!”  She  closed  her  eyes  and  twisted 
her  lips. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  asked  Daniel,  aggrieved. 
“Don’t  you  like  it?  That’s  good  old  stuff.” 

“Needs  a  chaser,”  said  the  girl  and  began  to 
cough.  “Gee,  that  stuff  must  be  bootleg.” 

“Well,  it’s  not.”  He  screwed  on  the  top  of  the 
flask.  “Got  it  from  old  friend.  Collects  prints. 
Old  friend  of  my  wife’s.” 

283 


284  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

The  girl  scowled.  “If  you  begin  talking  about 
your  wife  again  I’m  going  home.  If  you’re  so  stuck 
on  her,  why  don’t  you — ” 

Daniel  brought  down  his  fist  on  the  table.  “Don’t 
you  say  a  word  about  my  wife !” 

“Say,  what’s  eating  you?  I  don’t  know  your 
wife.” 

“Well,  she’s  a  fine  girl.  Best  Boston  society.  She’s 
in  hospital  now.” 

The  girl  studied  his  pale  eyes  and  high  forehead 
with  interest.  “Was  you  married  to  her  the  night 
I  was  at  your  house?  You  know — the  night  you 
was  so  hopping  mad  at  me.” 

“No.”  He  twisted  in  his  chair  with  uncertain 
straining  of  legs  and  shoulders,  gazing  out  over  the 
dancing  floor.  Ugh!  Perfume  and  sweat.  Pun¬ 
gent.  Sickly-sweet.  Syncopation  of  knees  and 
stomachs.  They  beat  together.  Hips  move  in 
measured  jerkings.  Savages  answering  call  of  the 
tom-tom.  Roomful  of  hurdies.  Like  to  spear  them 
all.  Caudal  movements.  The  little  Goya  aching  to 
get  out  there  and  foot  the  light  eccentric  toe. 
Damned  if  I’ll  ever  make  myself  a  spectacle.  Never 
could  dance.  Uninspired  feet.  They’ll  never  get  to 
Bankok.  Should  be  unity  to  feet.  Unity  in  every¬ 
thing — 

A  sleek-haired  youth  with  damp  skin  and  wet 
mouth  paused  at  the  table.  “Dance  this  ?” 

The  girl  looked  at  Daniel.  He  nodded.  She  got 
up  and  went  away. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  285 

Unity  in  everything.  All  forms  of  life.  Greek 
character  had  it  in  every  aspect.  Poetry,  sculpture, 
philosophy,  architecture — everywhere  except  in  home 
life.  Greeks  had  faulty  home  life.  And  the  princi¬ 
pal  thing  in  life  is  home  life.  Take  Amy  and  me. 
Unity  except  for  Sydney.  Now  I’m  probably  just 
another  cuckholded  husband,  horns  on  head  like  the 
rest.  Maybe.  Maybe  not.  I  don’t  know.  Maybe 
never  will  know  if  I’m  the  father  of  that  little  gar¬ 
goyle. 

“Say,  I’m  back.”  The  girl  was  in  her  chair  across 
the  table. 

“What’s  matter  ?” 

“Oh,  he’s  one  of  these  here  dirty  dancers.” 

Daniel  looked  at  her  thin  sleeveless  dress,  tight  as 
a  glove  to  the  waist.  Above  it  her  face,  powdered 
white  and  pink,  the  full  mouth  rouged,  the  eyes  black 
and  hard. 

“Perhaps  he  thought  you  wouldn’t  mind.” 

“Huh  !  A  cheap  guy  like  that !  He  wouldn’t  buy 
a  girl  a  subway  ticket.” 

Daniel  brought  out  the  flask.  “For — fortuitous 
ethics,  my  dear.  Clarify — clarify — ”  He  drank  be¬ 
hind  the  napkin,  long  golden  swallows  that  gurgled 
and  burned.  “What’s  your  name?” 

She  wriggled  about  in  her  chair.  “Aw,  it’s  terri¬ 
ble.  Don’t  ask  me.  Gee,  I  hate  my  name.” 

“Pearl?  Mabel?  Ethel?  They’re  the  worst 
names  I  know.” 

She  reproached  him  with  half-closed  eyes.  “Now, 


286 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


you’re  kidding  me.  What’s  the  matter  with  those 
names?  Mine’s  Merina.” 

“Merina?  That’s  a  beautiful  name.  Italian?” 

“Ye-ah.  My  mother  and  father’s  wops  all  right. 
I’m  American.” 

The  orchestra  began  to  play  again.  Merina  moved 
her  shoulders  and  hummed.  Daniel  watched  wasp- 
waisted  men  and  thick-waisted  girls  walk  by  on  their 
way  to  the  congress.  “There  goes  your  dirty 
dancer,  Merina.” 

“Aw,  him!” 

“Have  another  li’l  drink?” 

“Sure.” 

He  passed  the  flask  with  an  unsteady  hand,  watch¬ 
ing  her  soft  throat  as  she  drank.  Dirty  dancing. 
That  Algerian  girl  in  Paris.  Two  veils.  Wriggling, 
barefoot.  Toes  folded  under  from  bad  French  shoes. 
Dirtiest  dancing  in  history  invented  by  Pyrrhus. 
Around  tomb  of  his  father’s  intimate.  Achilles  and 
Patroclus.  Dance  of  indecent  postures.  Young 
men,  armed,  many  movements.  Getting  dizzy.  Bet¬ 
ter  go  now.  Her  face  nebulous,  whirling  like  nebu¬ 
lar  hypothesis  in  a  glass  of  whiskey.  Let’s  get  on 
with  the  peripatetic  love.  What  the  hell  did  I  do 
with  that  hotel  address?  In  wallet.  Shelter  for 
plebs.  Good.  I’m  a  pleb.  Amy  thinks  I’m  a  pleb. 
Her  mother  will  wonder  where  the  pleb  is  tonight. 
All  right.  Let  her.  Act  like  a  pleb  and  prove  they 
took  one  into  the  family.  They  can  put  a  pleb  on 
their  crest  now.  Damn  them.  Well,  I  found  girl 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


287 


for  a  poultice.  The  trigon  now  a  quadrangle.  Amy 
and  her  catamite.  The  gudgeon  and  that  little 
painted  bum.  Amy,  Amy - 

He  made  a  gesture,  awkward,  violent,  passionate. 
‘‘Come  on.  Le’s  get  out  of  here.” 

“Oh,  gee,  I  ain’t  danced  more’n  twice !” 

“Stay  by  yourself  then.  I’m  going.” 

He  stood  up,  clutching  the  back  of  his  chair,  sway¬ 
ing  over  it.  Blare.  Revolving  lights.  Heavy  shoes 
that  pulled  down  his  feet.  A  hand  on  his  arm.  The 
room  blue  and  twisting.  Crowds.  Thousands  of 
figures,  busy,  blurred.  They  came  at  him  too  fast. 
He  dodged.  The  hand  on  his  arm  pulled  him  back. 
Merina’s  voice.  “Hit  you  all  of  a  sudden,  didn’t 
it?”  Walking  among  tables  that  sprung  at  him  and 
fell  away.  A  red-haired  girl  who  stopped  to  look 
at  him.  Amy’s  hair.  No  one  else  had  a  right  to  it. 
Amy  in  hospital  and  can’t  defend  her  right  to  red 
hair.  There  with  a  baby.  Delicate  Amy  feeding  a 
child  like  a  charwoman.  Whose  child?  She  liked 
feeding  it.  For  his  sake.  Husbands  keep  off. 
Keep  off  the  pillow.  Can’t  wear  horns  to  bed.  Put 
them  underneath  with  the  shoes.  What’s  he  saying? 
What  check?  Hat  check. 

“M’rina,  got  check?” 

“In  your  pocket,  you  big  boob.” 

“S’what  pocket?” 

“Here.  Lemme  look.” 

Quick  fingers  fumbling.  She’s  got  wallet 
“Hey,  M’rina,  give — give - ” 


288 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


Cold  air  biting  face  and  hands.  “M’rina,  whassa 

that - ”  Bad  booze.  Must  be  bad.  Words  came 

out  wrong.  Don’t  want  this  taxi.  Want  to  walk  in 
air.  Black  street.  Whizzing  lights.  Whoop  around 
corners.  Two  wheels.  Sleep.  Soft  shoulder. 
Jounce  and  trounce.  Bad  streets.  Editorial  on  bad 
streets.  Commissioner  get  busy.  Brakes.  Won’t 
move.  Off  again.  Sick.  Head  and  soul.  Sleep. 
“Hey,  Danny!  Wake  up.” 

‘  ‘Where — where - ’  ’ 

“The  hotel.  Come  on.” 

“Don’t  want  to.  Tired.” 

“All  right.  Take  me  uptown  again.  A  lot  I 
care !” 

“No.  Wait,  M’rina.” 

Shadowed  lobby.  What’s  Merina  talking  about? 
Don’t  like  that  bellboy’s  face.  Furtive  face.  Sick 
in  head.  Must  have  stopped  drinking  too  soon. 
That’s  it.  Head  clears  if  you  keep  on.  Some  left 
of  second  quart.  Two  flasks.  Got  to  be  some  left. 
“M’rina,  le’s  have  another  li’l  drink.” 

“Wait  till  we  get  upstairs,  can’t  you?” 

Elevator.  Musty  smell.  Old-fashioned  kind. 
Funny  red  carpets  in  the  halls.  They  smell  like  the 
elevator.  “Got  key,  M’rina?  Thassa  girl.  This  it? 
Li’l  drink,  M’rina?” 

“My  Gawd,  ain’t  you  had  enough  ?” 

“Got  to  clear  head,  haven’t  I  ?” 

Bottle  faithful.  Three  drinks.  Two  for  me. 
Girl’s  don’t  appreciate  whiskey.  “Drink,  M’rina?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  289 

“Say,  but  you  seem  to  like  my  name.  Wish  I 
hadn’t  of  told  you.” 

“S’lovely  name,  M’rina.  MTina.  Poetic.  I  like 
poetic  names.  Aimee — Rhoda — S’miramis — Syl¬ 
via — Hildegarde - ” 

‘‘Listen  at  him — for  Gawd’s  sake.” 

“Leda  —  Deirdre  —  Clyte  —  Phyllis  —  Chloe  — 
Iris—” 

“You  ain’t  so  drunk  as  you’re  crazy.  Who  ever 
heard  of  them  names  ?” 

“Here,  M’rina.  To  your  health.  Come,  drink, 
M’rina — my  little  poultice.” 

“Oh,  you  make  me  tired.” 

Flows  down  throat  like  hot  light.  Enough  for 
one  more.  She’s  sulking.  Must  kiss  her.  Forget 
everything.  Fierce  eyes.  “Come  here,  M’rina.” 
Her  throat  soft.  Arms  cold.  What  did  I  pro¬ 
mise  ?  Better  give  it  now.  Don’t  like  kissing 
her.  Go  through  with  it.  “Take  off  your  hat, 
M’rina.  No  more  names.  I’ll  be  good.  Come  on. 
Nice  girl.  Danny  be  good.  Come  on.  Want 
’nother  li’l  drink?” 


VII 

Sunlight  moved  slowly  across  the  pillow  and 
rested  on  Daniel’s  eyes.  He  opened  them  and  sat  up, 
wincing  at  the  pain  that  smote  the  bones  of  his  fore¬ 
head.  On  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  he 
saw  his  hat,  collar  and  two  silver  flasks.  Jagged 
memories  of  his  night  pressed  into  his  mind  and  he 
groaned.  He  turned  and  looked  at  the  pillow  be¬ 
side  him.  It  was  empty.  His  eyes  travelled  about 
the  dingy  red  room.  He  was  alone.  Merina  had 
gone. 

He  left  the  tousled  hot  bed  and  found  his  vest, 
heaped  with  his  coat  on  a  chair.  His  watch  read 
ten  o’clock.  He  filled  the  wash  bowl  and  bathed, 
throwing  cold  water  over  the  burning  surfaces  of  his 
body.  He  dressed  and  made  his  way  through  tainted 
corridors  to  the  bright  street. 

Standing  on  the  comer  he  blinked  into  the  sun  and 
purified  his  lungs.  Then  he  turned  to  the  subway. 
Well,  the  adventure  is  over.  What  did  it  give  me? 
A  relief  from  pain  and  repression.  For  once  I  did 
not  feel  the  necessity  to  guard,  hidden  away,  my 
natural  self.  That  girl  did  not  think  of  me  as  an 
animal.  She  was  not  unsure  of  herself,  tender,  fra- 
290 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


291 


gile-minded  against  a  hairy  intrusion.  She  de¬ 
manded  no  delicacies  of  speech,  no  felicities  of  hand- 
kissing,  no  praise  for  hesitations.  She  gave  no  re¬ 
luctant  words,  no  lovely  waiting  with  a  flick  of  pain 
in  it  because  she  could  never  be  wholly  disclosed  to 
me.  There  were  no  mysteries  in  her  femaleness. 
She  was  plain  enough  under  my  eyes  and  I  read  her 
without  effort.  If  I  did  not  make  an  appeal  to  the 
desire  in  her  that  possessed  me,  at  least,  through 
collected  emotional  experiences,  she  was  able  to  sup¬ 
ply  the  spark  and  fan  it  with  breath  and  eyelids  into 
the  semblance  of  a  fire  by  which  I  was  warmed,  re¬ 
assured,  relaxed.  If  I  missed  the  exquisite  meaning 
which  my  adoration  of  Amy  always  gave  such  mo¬ 
ments,  at  least  I  was  free  at  last  to  express  without 
limitation  my  other,  unused  self.  Merina  spared  me 
pain  at  my  inadequacy — but  she  did  not  give  me  a 
purification  that  even  while  wounding,  lifted  me  into 
exaltation — as  if  I  were  kneeling  at  the  shrine  of 
some  forgotten  pagan  goddess. 

The  subway  wheels  began  to  echo  the  rhythm  of 
his  phrase — forgot-ten  pa-gan  god-dess  forgot-ten 
pa-gan  god-dess  and  behind  his  eyes  appeared  a  wild 
and  broken  hill  with  a  line  of  tamarisks,  bent  by  a 
torrid  tempest ;  gray  and  argent  shrubs  that  marked 
a  shrine  lonely  since  two  thousand  years.  At  the 
foot  of  the  hill  a  sigmoidal  river  signed  its  signifi¬ 
cant  way  over  the  plains  of  Attica  to  the  sea  that  had 
washed  the  city  of  the  Black  Venus.  Dead  drowned 
beauty,  beauty  that  is  dust,  beauty  that  is  spirit  and  a 


292 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


memory  of  the  Greek  nimbus.  Beautiful  women  of 
Megara,  Thessaly,  Sparta,  faithless  in  spite  of  their 
placid  faces.  Calm  beauty,  planning  corruption  and 
impious  deeds.  In  antiquity  a  child  must  have  been 
wiser  than  wise  to  have  known  its  own  father. 
What  wisdom  have  I  that  I  should  know  my  child  ? 
The  unimportance  of  paternity — except  to  the  father 
concerned.  The  horned  male  parent-by-law  on  his 
way  to  work  for  wife  and  his  possible  child. 

He  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes  to  the  tremb¬ 
ling  lights.  Why  in  God’s  name  did  she  marry  me  ? 
Perhaps  a  way  out.  Harrington  was  tied.  But  after 
all,  what  she  sought  in  me  in  the  beginning  was  a 
job.  She  asked  for  work  and  I  offered  her  sex. 
Marriage,  yes,  and  love.  But  sex.  She  had  her  im¬ 
pulse,  weak  as  it  was,  toward  honesty.  Circum¬ 
stances  I  don’t  understand  led  her  away  from  that 
impulse.  What  happened  then?  Unable  to  guess. 
A  dark  wall  without  top  or  gate.  I  can’t  be  sure,  I 
can’t  see  truth.  Black  hair.  Two  dark  grand¬ 
fathers.  That’s  not  enough  for  condemnation. 
Other  evidence  is  circumstantial.  Puppy  love,  a 
short  term,  a  swoon  of  weakness.  But  if  she  loved 
me  she  would  try  to  convince.  Pride  should  not 
walk  with  love. 

The  strain  of  mounting  the  subway  steps  recalled 
his  throbbing  head.  He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  and 
crossed  the  square  to  his  office,  bared  to  sun  and  a 
light  wind.  It  was  too  early  for  the  staff.  He 
passed  through  a  depopulated  city  room  and  closed 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


293 


his  office  window.  Still  in  his  overcoat  he  sat  down 
before  his  desk.  The  mail  lay  in  two  neat  heaps. 
He  opened  first  an  envelope  marked  URGENT.  On 
a  single  sheet  of  copy  paper  was  written  “A  tele¬ 
phone  message  from  Newark  has  come  in  saying 
your  father  died  last  night.  Sympathy.  Trainer.'' 


VIII 


The  shades  in  the  parlor  were  lowered  against 
the  night.  The  shabby  furniture,  set  against  the 
walls,  seemed  to  have  drawn  away  from  the  black 
cloth  coffin.  It  lay  ominously  along  the  faded  rose¬ 
buds  in  the  centre  of  the  carpet.  The  flesh  of  the 
dead  man’s  face  was  like  dirty  wax  that  had  been 
moulded  by  cunning  hands  whose  ironic  fingers  had 
missed  no  truth  of  line  or  depression  in  a  resolve  to 
depict  the  indifferent  dejection  old  age  feels  toward 
death.  The  hands,  gray  and  rigid,  were  folded  com¬ 
fortably  across  the  top  button  of  Mr.  Geer’s  Sunday 
suit.  Their  easy  posture  gave  an  air  of  satisfaction 
to  the  pose,  as  if  the  dead  man  had  considered  his 
last  gesture  well  and  had  chosen  this  one. 

“He  was  a  good  man — a  good  man.”  Andrew 
spoke  from  his  corner  and  sighed,  looking  about  him 
for  confirmation. 

Daniel  glanced  at  his  brother-in-law’s  sad  red 
face.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  stood  up,  cramped 
in  the  knees.  He  meant  that  for  me.  I’m  the  only 
one  who  has  failed  in  dull  spoken  epitaphs.  A  good 
man.  There  he  lies,  dominating  his  family  in  death 
as  he  would  have  wished  to  rule  them  in  life.  He 
has  come  into  his  brief  supremacy  too  late.  Wonder 


294 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


295 

if  I  might  go  out  and  smoke  without  being  called 
heartless.  Better  wait  until  they  go  to  bed. 

“The  Lord  let  him  live  to  a  ripe  old  age.  We 
must  remember  that  and  be  thankful,”  said  Ruth. 
She  bent  over  to  her  mother  and  laid  a  hand  in  the 
stiff  black  lap  at  her  side. 

Mrs.  Geer  nodded  slowly.  Her  lower  lip  oscillated 
as  if  set  on  a  spring.  Her  inflamed  eyelids  closed 
and  squeezed  out  tears  that  rolled  down  and  spread 
on  the  flabbiness  of  her  cheeks.  She  began  to  sob, 
rocking  from  side  to  side  in  her  straight-backed 
chair.  The  knot  of  hair  on  the  top  of  her  head  came 
loose  and,  moving,  revealed  a  pink  patch  of  scalp. 
She  put  up  her  fingers,  gnarled  and  chapped,  to  cover 
her  face.  She  sobbed,  “Oh,  what’ll  become  of  me 
now  your  poor  pa’s  gone!” 

No  one  spoke.  Andrew  sighed  again,  glanced  at 
Daniel  and  uncrossed  his  thick  legs.  He  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  trouser  pockets  and  sprawled  out  on 
his  chair,  staring  down  at  the  faded  roses  of  the 
carpet.  Ruth,  her  black  arms  folded  non-commit¬ 
tally  across  her  stomach,  supplied  his  sigh  with  a 
faint  late  echo  and  fastened  her  gaze  to  the  curled- 
up  toes  of  her  shoes. 

Daniel  got  up  and  crossed  the  room,  passing  the 
sightless  face  of  wax.  He  bent  down  and  put  his 
arm  about  his  mother’s  shoulders.  “Why  mother, 
you  know  I’ll  always  take  care  of  you,”  he  said. 

She  inclined  her  body  toward  him  and  touched 
his  arm  with  her  white  old  head.  “Yes, 


296  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

Danny,  you’re  a  good  boy.”  She  choked  and  began 
to  rock  in  a  fresh  attack  of  grief.  “Your  poor  pa! 
I’m  all  alone — all  alone!  Perhaps  he  can  see — and 
judge !” 

Daniel’s  eyes  sought  his  sister’s  quiet  obstinate 
face.  “What’s  worrying  mother?”  he  asked. 
“What  is  she  talking  about  ?” 

Ruth  pressed  her  lips  together.  She  glanced  at 
her  husband  and  stared  again  at  her  shoes.  Andrew 
shifted  his  heaviness  in  his  chair.  With  a  preoc¬ 
cupied  frown  he  squinted  at  a  dim  pink  rose. 

Against  this  pact  of  silence  Daniel  raised  his  voice. 
“What’s  all  this  about?  Won’t  anybody  tell  me?” 
He  waited,  blinking  at  his  mother  while  she  sobbed 
on  into  the  still  room.  Then  he  returned  to  his  chair. 
Not  the  time  to  investigate  a  family  quarrel.  Let  it 
wait  until  the  poor  lost  ego  is  under  ground.  Wish 
they’d  let  me  have  him  decently  cremated.  Wonder 
how  mother  would  take  it.  Probably  has  a  preju¬ 
dice. 

Mrs.  Geer  brought  down  her  hands  and  fumbled 
in  her  lap  with  slowly  moving  knotted  fingers.  The 
silk  of  her  dress  made  a  hissing  sound  under  the 
search  of  rough  skin.  She  drew  her  breath  in  sharp 
spasms  and  sent  it  forth  in  a  rhythmic  series  of  woe¬ 
ful  sounds. 

“Do  you  want  a  handkerchief,  mother?”  Daniel 
drew  a  large  square  of  linen  from  his  pocket  and 
started  up  from  his  chair. 

She  raised  bleared  red  eyes,  calmer  already  under 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


297 


the  necessity  of  speech.  The  tragic  lines  of  her 
face  fell  into  those  of  commonplace  hopelessness. 
“No,  Dan.  I’ll  just  go  get  one  of  my  new  ones  with 
black  borders.  It’s  more  fitting.”  She  pulled  her¬ 
self  up  heavily  and  straightened  her  knees.  She 
seemed  trying  not  to  accept  her  new  importance  as 
the  relict  and  central  figure  of  this  domestic  tragedy 
from  fear  that  any  self-assertion  might  yet  be  re¬ 
buked  from  the  tyrant  in  his  coffin. 

Ruth  clutched  at  her  elbow.  “Here,  ma.  Mine’s 
got  black.”  She  poked  a  handkerchief  into  her 
mother’s  fingers  and  pulled  her  back  into  her  chair. 
Mrs.  Geer  blew  her  nose  with  restraint  and  dropped 
her  hands  into  her  lap.  The  room  was  silent  once 
more  while  four  stared  at  the  dead. 

To  Daniel’s  tired  eyes  the  coffin  seemed  to  have 
grown  larger,  more  impressive,  since  he  had  come 
into  the  room.  It’s  fatality  was  pushing  toward  him 
and  would  touch  him  if  he  waited  there.  He 
shuddered  and  looked  away  to  the  marble  clock  on 
the  mantel.  “You’d  better  go  to  bed,  mother.  It’s 
nearly  midnight.” 

Her  eyelids  wrinkled  up  and  she  looked  at  him 
dully.  “No.  I  guess  I’ll  sit  up  a  while  yet  with  your 
pa.”  Her  look  returned  to  the  coffin,  touching  it 
with  pride  and  affection  shining  through  her  grief. 
“I’m  glad  he’s  got  such  a  nice  coffin.”  She  glanced 
back  at  Daniel  and  then  her  eyes  roved  on  to  the  wall 
and  fixed  themselves  upon  the  old  charcoal  portrait, 
its  shirt  front  labelled,  James  G.  Geer,  March  1872. 


298  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

That  was  the  year  she  had  met  him — a  fierce  young 
man  with  fanatical  eyebrows  and  a  cold  set  mouth 
such  as  preachers  gain  after  years  of  recalling  their 
God  to  the  heedless  and  unwilling. 

Daniel  could  not  turn  his  eyes  away  from  the 
coffin.  As  long  as  I  remain  in  the  room  I  must 
think  of  nothing  else.  The  first  funeral  I  haven’t 
been  able  to  avoid.  The  first  time  I  have  mused  be¬ 
fore  death.  Thanatopsis.  With  what  elaborate  for¬ 
mulae  the  ancients  mourned  and  took  leave  of  their 
dead!  Dancing  about  funeral  pyres.  Corteges 
across  water.  Obsequies  of  embalming  and  wrap¬ 
ping.  Father’s  last  hours  above  ground  ignored  by 
ceremonies.  He  had  no  viatic  draught,  no  priests 
in  black  and  gold  to  chant  and  asperse  his  abject 
corpse  with  holy  water.  He  would  have  hated  highly 
colored  comfort  from  Rome.  He  called  it  dirty 
papery.  That  time  mother  went  to  see  St.  Patrick’s. 
He  raged  while  she  told  of  incense  and  pretty 
candles.  Religion  needs  picturesque  pomp  and  mes- 
merics,  I  told  him.  Another  rage.  The  Russian 
burial  service  has  beautiful  words.  “I  weep  and  I 
wail  when  I  think  about  death  and  behold  our  beauty 
lying  in  the  tomb  disfigured  and  bereft  of  form.  .  .  . 
When  we  have  acquired  the  world,  then  do  we  take 
up  our  abode  in  the  grave  where  kings  and  beggars 
lie  down  together.”  The  sadness  of  the  grave. 
Soon  I,  too,  shall  have  a  narrow  house.  And  Amy’s 
bright  gold  and  milk  white  will  decay  between  boards 
that  are  wrapped  in  lead.  I’ll  offer  no  cock  to  iEscu- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


299 


lapius  for  my  release  and  I  dare  say  Socrates  would 
have  been  willing  to  recall  his  beau  geste  for  another 
year  of  life.  Being  shut  away  into  the  earth  is  half 
the  terror  I  feel  of  death.  I’d  rather  lie  in  a  museum 
where  there  is  light  and  the  sounds  of  feet  and 
voices.  My  nerves  on  edge  from  debauch  and  bas¬ 
tardy.  Dying  can’t  be  so  terrible  as  its  anticipation. 
Many,  dragged  back  just  in  time,  have  described  a 
pleasant  sensation — a  gentle  sinking  into  nothing¬ 
ness.  The  agony  of  severance  is  perhaps  only  tra¬ 
ditional  and  the  horror  of  bloat  and  grave  worms 
torments  us  only  in  life.  Anyway,  silly  old  age  is 
worse  than  a  more  genuine  dissolution.  “Age  and 
age’s  evils,  hoar  hair,  ruck  and  wrinkle,  drooping, 
dying,  death’s  worst,  tombs  and  worms  and  tumbling 
to  decay.”  The  Parsees  make  sure  of  cheating  the 
worms.  Their  dead  lie  on  towers  of  silence  where 
birds  polish  the  bones  and  spare  the  earth  pollution. 
The  Ichthyophagi  threw  their  corpses  into  the  sea, 
a  gift  to  fishes  which  later  they  caught  in  their  nets. 
Cremation  the  only  thing.  That’s  clean.  No  wind¬ 
ing  sheets  or  spiced  mummies.  Pure  fire  for  the 
stiff  and  insensible. 

“Mother.”  He  spoke  abruptly  and  the  three 
dreaming  faces  before  him  lifted  quickened  eyes.  “I 
would  like  to  have  father  cremated.  Have  you  any 
objection  ?” 

Mrs.  Geer  stared  at  him.  Her  thin  eyebrows 
raised  themselves  as  if  to  get  away  quickly  from  the 
shocked  incredulity  of  the  face  beneath.  Her  lips 


300 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


moved,  signifying  their  obedience  to  form  dismayed 
words  whenever  they  might  be  ready  to  falter  forth 
unbelieving  protest.  She  sat  forward  in  her  chair, 
her  cheeks  quivering.  “Why — why — what  an  idea ! 
How  can  you,  Dan?  Oh,  I  could  never  give  your 
poor  pa’s  body  to  the  flames !”  Querulous  and  of¬ 
fended,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  Ruth, 
searching  for  supporting  indignation. 

“Now,  mother,  that’s  only  sentimentality.  I  as¬ 
sure  you,  it’s  the  decent,  clean  way.  I  shouldn’t 
think  you’d  want  the  picture  before  you  of  flesh  rot¬ 
ting  in  a  grave.” 

Andrew  jumped  up  from  his  chair  and  stepped  to 
Mrs.  Geer’s  side.  His  red  face  overhung  her  white 
grief.  “Say,  Dan,  that’s  a  fine  thing  to  say  to  ma  at 
a  time  like  this !” 

Daniel  gave  him  a  contemptuous  and  insulting 
look.  “I’m  not  speaking  to  you.”  In  the  sweep  of 
his  glance  he  caught  Ruth’s  open  shocked  eyes.  The 
accusing  faces  set  against  him  demanded  an  acquittal 
of  reason.  His  taut  nerves  tightened  again 
throughout  his  body.  “Listen,  mother.  Cremation 
is  not  only  an  old  practice  but  a  highly  honored  one. 
It  dates  back  to  Homer,  Hector  and  Remus.  Saul, 
too,  from  your  Bible,  was  cremated.  The  ancients 
all  thought  fire  a  purifying  virtue.  The  Indian 
Brahmans  even  burnt  themselves  alive,  thinking  it 
the  noblest  manner  of  ending  their  days.” 

“Huh!”  said  Andrew.  “He’s  off  again.  Has  to 
show  off  in  his  pa’s  last  hours  in  the  house.”  Moving 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


301 


closer  to  Mrs.  Geer,  he  clapped  a  protective  red  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  turned  his  blustering  face  to 
Daniel. 

Daniel  got  out  of  his  chair  with  deliberation. 
“I’m  addressing  my  mother,  Andrew.  Please  keep 
out  of  family  matters  that  do  not  concern  you.” 

“Andy,  sit  down,”  said  Ruth  in  a  whisper. 

“Well,  I  like  that!  The  gall  of  him!  As  if  I 
ain’t  one  of  the  family!  See  here,  Dan,  it  don’t  make 


Ruth  reached  forward  and  jerked  him  backward 
by  the  coat.  “Sit  down,”  she  said  sharply.  “You 
boys  can’t  have  an  argument  now.” 

Mrs.  Geer’s  flaccid  mouth  was  hanging  open,  limp 
with  her  bewilderment.  Her  eyes  darted  in  terrified 
anticipation  from  Daniel  to  Andrew  and  back  to 
Daniel  until  Andrew  dropped  out  of  her  range, 
growling  as  he  settled  himself  again  in  his  chair. 

“Well,  mother?”  demanded  Daniel. 

She  waved  a  hand  in  weak  rejection.  “It  ain’t 
Christian.  Your  pa  wouldn’t  have  liked  it,  Dan. 
As  if  we  was  trying  to  get  rid  of  buying  him  a  nice 
plot  and  a  marble  headstone !” 

Andrew  was  muttering  into  Ruth’s  ear.  “ — and 
a  fine  time  to  pick  a  fight  with  ma  but  he — ” 

Daniel  glanced  at  the  thick  shaved  neck  with  its 
bristles  lying  in  wait  under  the  skin.  His  resent¬ 
ment  of  Andrew’s  vulgar  person  made  a  bitter  burn¬ 
ing  in  his  breast  and  mounted  up  to  choke  him.  He 
moved  toward  his  mother.  She  was  weeping  weakly 


2)02 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


and  her  distorted  mouth  was  like  an  unhealthy 
bloodless  wound.  “All  right,  mother,”  he  said  gently 
and  laid  his  hand  on  her  head.  “I’m  sorry  if  I’ve 
made  an  unpleasant  suggestion.  You  may  pick  out 
the  handsomest  headstone  in  town  for  father’s 
grave  and  send  the  bill  to  me.” 

“Thank  you,  Danny.” 

He  went  back  to  his  chair.  Ought  to  have  dropped 
it  at  once.  After  all,  what  does  it  matter?  Mould 
or  ashes  are  the  same  once  the  machinery  stops. 
“Who  knows  the  fate  of  his  bones  or  how  often 
they  are  to  be  buried?”  Even  the  privacy  of  isola¬ 
tion  is  not  assured.  The  commercial  shovel,  con¬ 
verting  cemeteries  into  building  lots,  tosses  the  pious 
bones  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Harangue  on  a  heap  with 
the  fossil  remains  of  neighborhood  sinners.  Better 
to  lie  like  Chateaubriand,  lonely  and  uninscribed,  at 
the  top  of  a  Brittany  cliff. 

Mrs.  Geer  wiped  her  eyes  and  stood  up  before 
her  chair.  The  gray  loose  knot  of  her  hair  fell 
forward  on  her  forehead.  With  shoulders  bent  and 
arms  hanging  like  stiff  broken  branches,  she  walked 
heavily  to  the  coffin  and  stood  gazing  down  at  the 
mask  of  flesh.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  placed 
fingers  like  knotty  twigs  upon  skin  that  had  already 
settled  itself  in  a  faultless  adjustment  to  the  skull. 
Raising  her  fingers,  she  let  them  fall  and  lifted  them 
again,  patting,  patting  in  tenderness.  She  began  to 
speak,  bending  over  the  edge  of  the  coffin.  “Forty 
years,  Jim,  forty  years.  Alone  now.  They  don’t 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  303 

want  me.  Forty  years — ”  She  turned  with  forced 
angular  movements  and  went  from  the  room,  hunch¬ 
ed  forward  in  an  ungiven  slouch,  her  wide  black 
skirt  touching  the  floor  and  rebounding  at  each 
stiff  planting  of  her  feet. 

Daniel  waited  until  he  heard  the  closing  of  a  door 
before  he  spoke.  “Ruth  what  did  mother  mean? 
What’s  all  this  about  father  seeing  and  judging?” 

Ruth  lifted  her  head,  her  eyes  hardening  between 
their  lids.  “Now,  Dan,  you  know  we  haven’t  room 
for  mother !” 

“But  of  course  not.  I’m  going  to  keep  this  place 
for  her.” 

Ruth  threw  her  husband  an  impelling  signal.  “She 
won’t  stay  here  alone.  She  wanted  to  come  live 
with  us.” 

With  an  unexpected  vehement  cordiality,  Andrew 
burst  into  speech.  “Dan,  I’ve  been  thinking  things 
over.  Maybe  you’d  want  to  take  a  bigger  apartment 
for  ma  and  have  Ruthie  and  me  live  there  and 
sort  of  look  after  her.  That  way  we  could  take 
her  off  your  hands.”  He  watched  Daniel’s  face 
with  sharp  eyes,  a  forced  smile  on  his  heavy  wide 
mouth. 

Daniel  regarded  him  coldly.  “That’s  a  great  idea 
— for  you.  Nothing  doing.  I  have  enough  rent  to 
pay  already.” 

Andrew’s  smile  died.  He  pulled  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth.  “You’re  a  hell  of  a  fine  son,”  he  said. 
“Living  in  style  in  New  York  with  that  swell  wife 


304 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


of  yours  and  leaving  your  poor  old  mother  alone 
in  this  dirty  little  flat !” 

“Andy !”  Ruth  hurried  to  his  side  and  shook  his 
arm.  “You  and  Dan  can’t  fight  in  here  with  pa 
lying  there  dead!” 

“Then  come  outside,”  said  Andrew.  He  threw 
back  his  head  and  snorted  through  flaring  nostrils. 
“I’ve  held  in  as  long  as  I  can.  There’s  some  people 
that  get  my  goat  till  I  don’t  know  what  I’m  doing.” 
He  sent  Daniel  a  glance  of  bitterness  and  hatred. 
“Come  on,  Ruthie.  I’m  going  to  the  kitchen  and 
get  a  piece  of  pie  and  a  cup  of  cawffee.”  He  stalked 
across  the  carpet  and  through  the  door. 

Ruth  took  an  uncertain  step  and  paused.  She 
looked  at  Daniel,  standing  white  and  contemptuous 
by  his  chair.  “It’s  too  bad  you  and  Andy  don’t  get 
along.  It  always  makes  him  mad  when  you  act  as 
if  you  despised  him.” 

Daniel  gave  a  short  laugh.  “I  do.  That’s  the 
word.  Despise.”  He  saw  her  wince  and  wilt  in  her 
black  dress.  “Sorry,  Ruth.  You  and  I  used  to 
have  affection  for  each  other.  Since  you  married 
him  you’ve  changed.” 

“Don’t  you  think  you’ve  changed,  too?”  cried 
his  sister.  “You’re  worse  than  ever  since  you  went 
away  to  New  York.  Now  you’re  so  stuck  up  that 
you  take  everybody’s  head  off  for  nothing.  Any- 
body’d  think  you  were  the  Lord  Almighty  to  see  the 
airs  you  put  on  since  you  married  that  society 
queen !” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


305 


With  a  pain  at  his  heart  he  saw  the  rancor  that 
ate  at  her  and  bowed  his  head  before  her  wounded 
loyalty  to  Andrew.  “I’m  sorry,  Ruth.” 

“Yes,  you  are !” 

He  heard  her  go  from  the  room  and  walk  down 
the  hall.  So  that’s  how  they  see  me!  Withholding 
myself  from  them  through  conceit,  holy  in  my 
superiority.  It  always  seems  true  to  the  family 
that’s  left  behind.  Only  mother  feels  faint  pride  in 
me.  Father  sneered  because  I  had  gone  beyond  him. 
I’m  glad  my  suffering  is  unknown.  They  would 
take  part  payment  from  it  for  their  grievances  and 
watch  eagerly  until  I  could  pay  again.  Poor  mother, 
waiting  mustily  for  the  end,  so  resigned  to  her  life 
under  tyranny  that  she  now  mourns  her  new 
freedom. 

He  walked  to  the  coffin  and  looked  into  it.  Blind, 
deaf,  dumb.  The  cells  that  recorded  his  life  cycle 
are  already  melting.  Blue  at  the  corners  of  the  eyes 
and  mouth.  Under  the  finger  nails,  too.  Process 
of  decay  working  below  the  undertaker’s  powder. 
Nostrils  pinched  in.  All  the  horrors  of  the  grave 
foreshadowed  here.  A  sickly  sweet  odor  seems  to 
emanate  from  the  coffin.  Imaginary.  Probably 
those  white  flowers.  Hope  my  nerves  hold  out 
until  after  tomorrow.  Funerals  are  a  horrible  heri¬ 
tage  from  savagery.  We  hold  to  them  because 
death  is  so  bound  with  superstition.  The  human 
race  tireless  in  its  search  for  a  meaning.  What  is 
life,  they  ask,  and  what  is  death?  Well,  questioning 


306 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


is  activity.  That’s  better  than  coma.  Nothing  in 
teleology  for  me.  What  final  cause  could  there  be? 
All  purposeless  and  mechanical.  That  old  man  in 
the  library  who  spent  forty  years  on  a  ten  volume 
treatise  to  prove  the  purposiveness  in  nature  only 
proved  his  own. 

Mrs.  Geer’s  dragging  step  came  down  the  hall. 
Daniel  turned  to  the  door  and  watched  her  come 
toward  him  on  legs  as  stiff  as  stilts.  “They’re 
having  a  bite  in  the  kitchen,”  she  announced.  She 
laid  her  deformed  old  hand  on  the  coffin  as  she 
would  have  rested  it  on  the  living  shoulder  of  her 
husband.  “It’s  a  nice  casket,  ain’t  it,  Dan  ?  I  think 
your  pa  would  have  liked  it.” 

“Yes,  mother.” 

“Danny,  the  day  before  he  died — he  knew. 
He  sat  and  looked  out  the  window  there  and 
I  read  him  the  Twenty-Third  Psalm.  He  liked  that 
one  best.” 

He  took  her  hand  from  the  coffin  and  pressed  it 
between  his  cold  palms.  “Yes,  mother.  It’s  very 
beautiful.” 

“The  last  day  he  asked  for  you.  Ruthie  telephoned 
all  afternoon  but  you  was  out.  He  wanted  to  thank 
you  for  what  you’ve  done  for  us.” 

“I  haven’t  done  much.  I  wish  it  had  been  more.” 

“You  was  always  a  good  boy.  The  rent  came 
regular  and  something  extra  nearly  always.”  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  drained  old  affection.  “I 
hope  you  come  real  often  to  see  me  now  your  pa’s 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


307 


gone.”  Her  chin  began  to  tremble.  “Oh,  it’ll  be 
terrible  here  all  alone !  I’ll  see  him  sitting  there  'by 
his  window — ” 

Daniel  seized  both  her  hands  and  drew  her  to 
him.  Putting  an  arm  about  her,  he  held  her  firmly, 
seeing  over  her  shoulder  the  face  in  the  coffin. 
“You’re  not  going  to  live  here  alone.  You’re  coming 
to  New  York  to  live  with  me.  Amy  and  I  need  you 
to  help  with  the  baby.” 

She  pressed  her  head  closer  into  his  shoulder. 
“Oh,  I  couldn’t  do  that!  You’re  too  stylish  for  me. 
I  ain’t  used  to  it.  I’d  better  stay  here  where  I  can  see 
Ruthie  real  often.”  Her  voice  was  tremulous, 
hoping  for  and  fearing  a  defeat. 

“But  mother  you  must !  Amy  knows  nothing  about 
babies.  She  needs  your  help.” 

She  drew  away  and  searched  his  face  for  lies. 
“She  wants  me  to  come?  Are  you  sure,  Danny?” 

“Of  course,  mother.”  He  reassured  her  with  a 
smile  and  a  little  shake. 

“Well — I  don’t  know.  Of  course  I  know  a  lot 
about  babies — maybe  I  could — ”  Her  fingers 
pushed  themselves  up  his  coat  like  broken  sticks. 
“I  guess  I  ought  to  ask  Ruthie  first.  She  might 
feel  hurt  if  I  moved  away  so  far.”  Looking  into  his 
grave  face,  she  sent  him  up  a  pale  withered  smile. 
Excited  blood  burned  in  two  little  patches  on  her 
cheeks.  “Oh,  Danny,  Danny!  I  wish  your  pa 
could  have  knowed  I  was  going  to  live  with  you 
and  your  wife !  He  was  always  worrying  about  me. 


3o8  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

He  tried  to  be  good  to  me,  Dan.  I  ain’t  got  no 
complaints.”  Almost  in  triumph  she  turned  to  the 
coffin.  “See  here.”  She  bent  over  and  slipped  her 
hand  into  a  pocket  of  the  black  Sunday  suit.  “Look.” 
She  brought  out  three  pictures  and  laid  them  into  his 
hand.  “He  asked  for  my  picture  to  be  buried  with 
him.  That  one  he  liked  with  feathers  in  my  hat. 
I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  put  in  you  children’s 
with  mine.  That’s  Ruthie  when  she  was  fourteen — 
and  your  first  baby  picture.” 

Daniel  lifted  the  worn  pasteboard  to  his  eyes. 
“My  picture — that?”  he  exclaimed.  “Now,  mother, 
I  could  never  have  looked  like  that.” 

“Well,  you  did,”  said  Mrs.  Geer.  “You  wasn’t 
a  pretty  baby  but  you  was  cute.  You  had  a  bright 
little  face  and  you  began  to  notice  things  from  the 
time  you  was  six  months  old.”  She  drew  the 
pictures  from  his  fingers  and  bent  down  to  the  dead 
man’s  pocket.  “Your  pa’s  baby  pictures  looked  just 
like  yours.  And  I  was  the  living  image  of  my 
mother’s  baby  pictures.  Sometimes  they  look  more 
like  their  fathers  and  mothers  when  they’re  babies 
than  after  they  grow  up.” 

Daniel’s  eyes  watched  her  face  with  sharp  intent¬ 
ness.  “Really?  I  never  knew  that.  Mother,  did 
father  have  dark  hair  when  he  was  born?” 

Mrs.  Geer  wrinkled  her  forehead.  “I  don’t  know 
as  I  ever  heard  him  say.  But  it  was  black  and  shiny 
when  he  began  courting  me.”  She  sighed  and 
looked  into  the  coffin.  “He  was  always  troubled, 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


309 


Dan,  that  you  wasn’t  a  good  Christian.  Many’s 
the  time  he’s  said  prayers  for  your  change  of  heart. 
But  you  never — Danny.  Say  a  prayer  with  me  now 
before  he’s  laid  away.  Will  you,  sonny?  Just  to 
please  your  ma?” 

He  retreated  from  her  anxious  old  eyes.  “Why, 
mother,  I — ” 

Her  lips  puckered.  “Please,  Danny.” 

He  turned  to  the  coffin  and  blinked  at  the  clay 
face,  seeing  how  the  stern  heavy  brows  were  drawn 
apart  at  last  in  peace.  He  bowed  his  head  under 
his  mother’s  pleading  face  and  held  her  fingers  in 
a  clasp  of  comfort.  He  said  in  a  low  voice,  “ De - 
bemur  morti  nos  nostraque.  There  mother.  That’s 
the  only  prayer  I  know  for  the  dead.” 

She  patted  his  hand  and  he  felt  the  smooth  hard 
surface  of  her  wedding  ring  tap  on  his  knuckles. 
“Thank  you.  He  would  be  pleased.” 

Smiling,  he  bent  and  kissed  her  cheek.  “Go  to 
bed  and  sleep  a  few  hours.  I’ll  stay  here  and  watch 
for  you.” 

“Well,  maybe  I’d  better.  I’m  worn  out  with 
taking  care  of  him.  Ruthie  and  Andy  will  come  and 
sit  with  you.  Want  a  piece  of  pie  and  some  hot 
coffee,  Danny?” 

“No.  Goodnight,  mother.” 

She  kissed  him,  lingering  and  patting  in  the 
only  activity  of  tenderness  she  knew. 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door  and  watched  her 
down  the  hall.  Listening,  he  heard  voices  from 


310  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

the  kitchen,  long  rumbles  that  were  Andrew's  and 
the  complaining  treble  of  his  sister. 

He  returned  to  the  coffin  with  swift  steps.  Breath¬ 
ing  quickly,  he  bent  and  in  a  copy  of  his  mother’s 
gesture  slipped  his  hand  into  the  flat  pocket.  The 
body  beneath  the  cloth  felt  like  a  board.  Shiver¬ 
ing,  he  drew  out  three  pictures  and  returned  two 
to  their  post  over  the  quiet  heart.  Then  he  walked 
back  to  his  chair  and  sat  down  to  his  vigil. 


IX 


The  thin  coughing  cry  rose  to  a  wail.  Amy 
and  Mrs.  Geer  looked  at  each  other  across  the  table. 
“Oh,  dear !”  said  Amy.  She  pushed  her  chair  back 
and  stood  up,  tall  and  narrow-hipped,  swathed  in 
yellow  silk.  “Will  you  save  me  some  coffee, 
Daniel  ?” 

‘Til  send  it  out  and  we’ll  have  it  when  you  come 
back.” 

“Will  you?  Sorry  to  have  you  wait.” 

From  across  the  table  Mrs.  Geer  watched  Amy 
as  she  walked,  graceful  and  swaying,  to  the  door. 
“Well,  the  baby  waited,”  she  called  at  her  long 
yellow  back.  “It’s  nearly  nine  o’clock.” 

“We’re  late  tonight,”  said  Daniel.  “Mary  was 
delayed  by  the  storm.  I  think  it’s  going  to  be  the 
big  blizzard  of  the  winter,  mother.  The  snow  has 
been  tumbling  like  feathers  ever  since  you  got  back 
from  church.” 

“Has  it?”  Her  eyes  were  still  on  the  door.  “I 
didn’t  take  notice.”  She  tilted  her  head,  listening. 
“That’s  funny.  She’s  still  crying.  I  wonder — ” 

“We  may  be  snowed  in  tomorrow,  though  that 
doesn’t  happen  any  more.  I  remember  you  and 
311 


312  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

father  telling  me  about  that  blizzard  of  the  Eighties 
_ >> 

“I  don’t  think  that  child  can  be  well,”  said  Mrs. 
Geer.  She  lifted  her  hands  from  her  lap  and  pressed 
them  against  the  table.  Her  chair  slid  back  and  she 
bent  forward  in  an  awkward  shifting  of  her  weight. 
“Fd  better  go  in,  I  guess,  and  see — ” 

His  eyes  followed  the  lumpy  black  figure.  Frown¬ 
ing,  he  listened  to  the  sounds  in  the  apartment, 
separating  from  them  those  that  Amy  might  be 
making  in  her  room  across  the  hall.  A  swinging 
door  swished  open  and  shut.  Mary  was  coming 
from  the  kitchen.  His  mother  was  speaking  in  a 
voice  that  held  the  querulous  quality  of  age.  A 
weak  wail  of  hunger.  Slight  broken  sounds — Amy 
moving,  silk-wrapped  and  perfumed,  between  her 
dresser  and  the  bassinette. 

He  sent  Mary  back  with  the  coffee  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  This  place  revolves  around  the  child.  A 
baby  matriarchy  set  up  in  my  home.  Mother  is  as 
fanatical  as  Amy.  I  could  have  spared  myself 
worrying  how  they  would  get  on  together.  The 
bond  of  a  baby  stronger  on  women  than  that  of 
marriage  or  friendship.  I  might  be  a  bachelor 
uncle  here  for  all  the  intimacy  they  feel  with  me. 
I’m  a  tolerated  provider,  watching  an  orgy  of  primi¬ 
tive  animal  instincts.  Two  months  of  being  politely 
ignored  and  held  outside  their  interests.  They  don’t 
even  listen  when  I  talk  in  their  impatience  to  leave 
me  for  another  peep  into  that  ridiculous  rubber- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


313 


wheeled  cradle.  Two  women  living  in  a  bassinette 
with  a  baby.  Fantastic  life  for  maturity  to  choose. 
Women  ought  to  drop  their  grudge  against  men  and 
blame  nature  for  their  narrow  spheres.  Yet  that’s 
hardly  fair.  Mrs.  Stowe  and  George  Sand  wrote 
their  books  with  children  clamoring  from  every 
corner.  I  must  get  Amy  alone  tonight  and  talk 
to  her.  She  can’t  go  on  indefinitely,  pretending  not 
to  notice  my  pose  of  polite  host.  Was  mother’s 
relation  to  father  as  casual  and  cold  as  the  one  she 
observes  here?  At  any  rate,  she  shared  his  room. 
Modern  marriages  can’t  always  be  like  this.  I’ll  be 
damned  if  I’ll  give  up  my  life  as  a  husband  and  con¬ 
tent  myself  with  the  post  of  observer  to  maternity. 
No.  I’ll  get  out  first.  I’d  rather  live  in  my  shabby 
bachelor  apartment  and  drug  myself  on  books. 
Nothing  here  is  right  and  I  am  wretched.  Would 
1  be  happy  if  I  were  certain  about  the  baby?  I 
don’t  know.  My  instinct  toward  fatherhood  is  un¬ 
awakened.  At  best,  it’s  a  cultivated  instinct,  having 
been  encouraged  to  develop  by  the  demands  of  civili¬ 
zation.  If  only  I  could  be  sure  I  might  feel  a 
protective  tenderness  toward  a  baby  that  shares 
flesh  and  gender  with  Amy.  How  do  other  men 
feel?  Bob,  for  instance.  I  must  find  out  his 
experiences  with  paternity.  Surely  it’s  a  personal 
reaction  with  men,  differing  in  each  case.  Women 
yearn  over  any  baby  but  you  never  see  men  stopping 
to  croon  and  babble  into  a  strange  perambulator. 
They’re  interested  only  in  the  one  that’s  parked  in 


314 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


their  own  hallway.  I  might  receive  an  enlarging 
emotional  experience  if  I  knew  that  baby  was  a 
mingling  of  Amy  and  me.  I’d  be  moved  for  her 
sake  at  least. 

Mrs.  Geer  appeared  in  the  door.  “She’s  fretting 
some,”  she  said,  worried  lines  deepening  on  her 
forehead.  “She  don’t  seem  real  strong  for  her  age. 
I  s’pose  that’s  maybe  because  she  was  a  seven  months 
child.  They’re  not  so  strong  at  first.” 

“Is  she  smaller  than  most  babies  ?”  asked  Daniel. 
“Come  in  and  sit  by  me  while  I  smoke.” 

“Oh,  yes,  she’s  real  little.”  Mrs.  Geer  returned  to 
her  chair  and  folded  her  hands  across  her  abdomen. 
Her  black  dress  pulled  tightly  over  the  bones  of  her 
corset  and  reflected  the  light  that  fell  from  the 
saffron-colored  lamp  above  their  heads.  “She 
only  weighed  six  pounds  when  she  was  born.  You 
was  a  nine  pounder  and  Ruthie  eight  and  a  half.” 

He  bent  toward  her  with  a  flare  of  interest. 
“Mother,  don’t  normal  babies  sometimes  weigh 
very  little?  I  mean — it  wouldn’t  have  been  un¬ 
usual  if  Ruth  had  weighed  six  pounds?” 

“Oh,  no,”  said  Mrs.  Geer  vaguely.  “It  all  depends. 
Some  do  and  some  don’t.” 

He  threw  himself  back  in  an  impatient  stretching 
of  muscles.  Always  generalizations !  Can’t  pin 
anyone  down.  You’d  think  babies  would  be  a 
subject  women  would  inform  themselves  about  since 
it’s  their  principal  job.  But,  no.  “Some  do  and 
some  don’t.”  A  fine  answer  to  a  scientific  question! 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


315 


If  we  depended  on  the  evidence  of  women,  no  man 
would  know  when  he  had  been  betrayed.  Not  that 
they’d  tell  if  they  could.  Their  morality  not  to  be 
relied  on.  They  never  have  an  ethical  standpoint. 
Slave  morality.  They  live  by  that.  Worse  than 
not  having  any  at  all,  like  most  men.  Amy  would 
never  admit  to  peccancy.  For  all  her  plastic  softness 
she  has  a  streak  of  steel  in  her  that  will  never  bend 
in  confession.  And  if  she  is  innocent? 

He  sighed,  his  breath  catching  in  his  throat.  Mrs. 
Geer  removed  her  gaze  from  the  lancinated  arc  of 
saffron  and  peered  at  him.  “Worrying  about  some¬ 
thing,  Dan?” 

“No.  Just  tired.” 

“I  don’t  see  how  that  can  be,”  she  said  with 
maternal  tartness.  “You  lay  abed  till  noon  today.” 

“Oh,  well,  mother.  It’s  the  day  of  rest,  you  know.” 

“Not  for  Amy  and  me.  We  was  up  at  six 
o’clock  with  the  baby.” 

“Then  you’d  both  better  go  to  bed  now.  I’ll  turn 
in,  too,  and  read.  But  I  want  to  talk  to  Amy  first.” 

“Maybe  she’d  forget  about  the  coffee  if  we  don’t 
sit  here.  She  oughtn’t  to  drink  it  if  she’s  going 
right  to  bed.”  She  arose  with  the  alert  look  of  a 
person  who  enjoys  the  importance  of  life’s  minutiae. 

“All  right,  mother.”  He  went  to  switch  off  the 
lights.  The  curtains  were  apart  and  through  them 
he  saw  the  warm  comfort  of  the  drawing  room. 
We’ll  talk  in  there.  Far  away  from  mother’s  door 
in  case  she  leaves  it  ajar. 


3i 6  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

“Daniel,  where’s  your  mother?”  Amy  came  to 
the  door  of  the  dark  room,  looking  across  the  black¬ 
ness  to  the  parted  curtains. 

“In  the  kitchen.”  She  in  her  bright  aperture 
and  I  in  mine.  Darkness  between  us  like  a  symbolic 
wall.  “Is  the  baby  asleep?” 

“I  hope  so.”  She  started  away. 

“Amy!” 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t  go.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.” 

“Well — I  have  to  see  your  mother  first.” 

“I  wish  you’d  consider  me  first  sometimes.” 

She  called  back  from  down  the  hall.  “What? 
I  didn’t  hear.” 

“Nothing.  Never  mind.”  He  crossed  the  dining 
room  to  the  hall  and  saw  her,  unconcerned  and  un¬ 
dulating,  walking  in  bright  yellow  through  the 
swinging  door.  He  began  to  stride  up  and  down 
before  the  three  bedrooms.  In  Amy’s  a  night  lamp 
was  burning,  golden  and  dim,  on  her  dressing  table. 
He  stopped  on  the  threshold,  blinking  across  the 
room  at  a  little  dome  of  sheltering  lace  by  her  bed. 
With  muscular  stealth  he  made  his  way  to  it  noise¬ 
lessly  and  stood  poised  on  his  toes  like  a  thief.  A 
doll  of  flesh  and  blood.  My  flesh?  My  blood?  I 
don’t  know. 

He  turned  his  head  away  and  listened  to  the 
effusion  of  voices,  smothered  by  distance  and  a 
door.  Then  with  a  quick  movement  he  twitched  the 
metal  cord  of  the  shaded  wall  light  above  the  bas- 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


317 


sinette.  A  soft  pink  glow  spread  over  the  baby’s 
sleeping  face.  His  nervous  hand  fumbled  for  his 
wallet  and  he  brought  from  an  inner  compartment 
a  small  faded  photograph  of  a  baby,  lying  naked 
and  belly  down  on  a  fur  rug,  its  face  lifted  in  vacant 
surprise.  The  rug  was  written  over  in  dim  sloping 
writing — Daniel  Boone  Geer,  April  17,  1890,  aged 
2  mos.  Bending,  he  laid  the  picture  on  the  pillow 
by  the  baby’s  head.  Now,  then,  what  have  these 
two  in  common?  Creases,  dimples,  rolls  of  fat,  a 
blob  for  a  nose.  The  hands?  Mine  were  broad  and 
fat.  These  are  already  like  Amy’s  little  pink  petals. 
And  that  black,  black  hair.  Black  as  hell.  Sydney’s 
hair.  Two  dark  grandfathers  not  so  black  as  Syd¬ 
ney’s  hair. 

The  baby  stirred  and  gasped.  It  opened  its  eyes 
on  Daniel  and  stared  up  out  of  irises  of  opaque 
blue  in  a  protracted  intent  gaze  that  questioned  and 
resented  the  face  bent  over  its  lacy  privacy.  It  closed 
the  pentad  of  its  fingers  into  a  bud.  It  opened  its 
mouth  in  a  protesting  red  circle  and  blew  out  a 
bubble. 

Daniel  felt  his  heart  beat  in  jerks  as  he  returned 
the  stare.  Blue  eyes  met  blue  eyes.  His  blood  rocked 
in  his  veins.  Eyes  like  mine !  Accident  or  heritage  ? 
Why  can’t  instinct  inform  me?  Do  I  feel  a  bond? 
She  doesn’t  like  me.  She’s  as  affronted  by  my 
presence  as  I  by  hers.  Even  she  was  born  with  a 
grudge  against  me.  Amy  often  looks  at  me  like 
that.  Same  disapproval  and  dislike.  No  one  cares 


318  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

for  me.  Perhaps  Elliot.  And  mother.  Yet  mother 
loves  Amy  and  Andrew  as  much  as  her  own  children. 
Weak  affection  for  us  all.  No  one  sees  that  I  suffer 
a  loneliness  that  is  devastating.  No  connection  with 
any  human  being.  This  little  new  one  like  the  rest. 
Perhaps  if  she  were  used  to  me  she  might  smile. 
They  crow  and  gurgle  sometimes. 

The  baby’s  fingers  unclosed.  Daniel  watched  the 
curling  morsels  of  flesh.  Slowly  and  with  trepida¬ 
tion  he  put  out  his  hand  and  slipped  his  forefinger 
into  the  palm,  a  warm  folded  rose-leaf.  At  his 
touch  the  baby’s  eyes  rolled  up  and  its  face  turned 
crimson.  It  sucked  air  into  its  lungs  and  sent  out  a 
thin  penetrating  wail. 

“Hell !”  said  Daniel.  He  snatched  up  the  picture 
from  the  pillow  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  Turning, 
he  jerked  out  the  light.  Before  he  could  gain  the 
door  he  heard  the  tap  of  Amy’s  heels  outside. 

“Daniel!  What  are  you  doing  in  here?” 

He  hesitated  before  her  dressing  table.  “I 
thought  I’d  put  out  this  light,”  he  said. 

“Well,  I  wish  you  hadn’t  come  in.  You  waked 
up  the  baby.” 

She  went  to  the  basinette  and  he  saw  her  in  the 
shadows,  bending  in  a  dim  yellow  arc  over  her  child. 
He  went  to  her  side  and  stood  in  awkward  silence, 
his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  His  fingers  slid  over 
his  keys  and  he  pulled  them  out  and  jingled  them 
over  the  bassinette.  “Here.  Let  her  play  with 
these.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


319 


“No,  Daniel.  She’s  too  little.” 

“Oh.  Well,  then,  let  me  walk  with  her.” 

“No.  Waking  and  rocking  are  not  allowed.  She 
must  learn  to  go  to  sleep  without  excitement.  Es¬ 
pecially  as  the  doctor  says  she’s  a  very  nervous 
child.” 

“Come  to  my  room,  Amy.  I  must  talk  to  you.” 
He  put  both  arms  about  her  and  locked  his  hands  on 
her  shoulder.  He  pressed  his  face  into  her  loose  red 
hair,  savoring  its  heavy  perfume.  “How  sweet 
you  are !  Do  you  know  how  long  it’s  been  since  you 
let  me  kiss  you?”  He  closed  his  eyes,  feeling  her 
hair  like  feathers  of  silk  against  his  lids. 

She  put  up  her  hands  to  unlock  his  fingers  from 
her  shoulder.  “Daniel,  I  must  get  the  baby  quiet. 
Please — you  know  it’s  bad  for  her  to  cry  like  this.” 
Her  face  in  the  dimness  was  soft  and  pleading. 

He  caught  her  hand,  feeling  the  great  scarab  ring 
under  his  fingers.  “Always  the  baby,  the  baby! 
Never  a  thought  for  me.  I’ve  suffered  hell — you 
don’t  know.  The  things  I’ve  done — I  must  tell 
you  what  you’ve  driven  me  to — because  I  thought 
— oh,  I  don’t  think  so  now !  I  won’t  let  myself — but 
you  didn’t  try  to  convince  me.  Why  didn’t  you? 
Oh,  I  know  why.  You  don’t  love  me.  If  you  had 
— You  never  loved  me,  Amy.  My  God,  why  should 
you?  I’m  a  dub.  That’s  all  I  am.  A  pleb,  a 
vulgar  pleb.  Oh,  a  good  enough  newspaper  man  to 
hold  down  my  job.  But  not  the  man  for  you.  I 
don’t  know  Latin  poetry  or  Gothic — or  Chinese 


320 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


ceramics.  Maybe  later  on  I  could  learn — when  we 
go  abroad.  Do  you  want  to  go  to  Europe  with  me 
darling?  I  might  manage — in  the  late  spring — ” 

“Daniel — I — ”  Her  anxious  green  eyes  slipped 
from  him  to  the  baby.  She  leaned  over  the  basinette 
and  laid  her  hand  on  the  baby’s  cheek.  Doubt  made 
little  shadings  in  her  forehead.  “I  think  she  has  a 
fever.  I  want  to  stay  with  her  till  she  falls  asleep. 
Then  I’ll  come  in,  Daniel.”  She  smiled  emptily, 
appeasingly,  and  dried  her  hand,  wet  with  the  baby’s 
tears,  on  a  handkerchief  of  black  chiffon  edged  with 
lace. 

He  caught  her  about  the  shoulders  and  bent  her 
head  back.  “No!  You  always  put  me  off.  You 
starve  me.  You  treat  me  abominably.  I  won’t  stand 
it!”  Trembling  he  kissed  her  unwilling  mouth,  the 
hunger  of  months  mounting  in  him,  heedless  of  her 
resistance  and  the  plaints  of  the  child. 

Amy  freed  her  mouth.  “Oh,  Daniel,  please, 
please!  I’m  so  terrified  about  the  baby!  Let  me 
go  now  and  I’ll  come  in  later.  Really  I  will.  I 
promise,  Daniel!” 

Denied  again,  his  throbbing  arms  fell  to  his  sides. 
“Always  excuses!  You’ve  humiliated  me  for  the 
last  time,  Amy!” 

She  threw  out  her  hand  toward  him.  “Daniel!” 

“I  mean  it.  I’ll  never  ask  you  again.”  Turning, 
his  sleeve  brushed  against  the  arm  she  still  extended 
and  the  cloth  caught  and  pulled  loose  something  that 
clung  to  his  sleeve  like  the  skeleton  of  a  little  snake. 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST  321 

“You’ve  broken  my  bracelet.  Wait — it’s  on  your 
sleeve.” 

He  did  not  answer  her  but  strode  out  quickly 
and  entered  his  own  room.  He  slammed  the  door 
shut  and  snapped  on  the  lights.  Blinking  out  the 
angry  tears,  he  plucked  her  bracelet  from  his  arm 
and  flung  it  down  on  the  Mexican  rug.  “Atlantic 
City.  Damn  the  place,”  he  muttered.  “Damn  her. 
Damn  everything.”  He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief 
and  blew  his  nose,  glaring  down  at  the  red  and 
black  design  of  the  rug  that  framed  the  curling 
bracelet. 

Someone  knocked.  He  said  savagely,  “What  do 
you  want  ?” 

“It’s  me,  Danny.  Goodnight,  dear.” 

“Oh.  Goodnight,  mother.” 

He  began  to  undress,  removing  his  clothes  with 
studied  deliberation.  He  fitted  his  coat  to  the  back 
of  a  chair  in  an  abstract  reversion  to  Newark 
custom.  Drawing  off  his  trousers,  he  shook  them 
and  laid  them,  empty  legs  flat  together,  across  the 
seat  of  the  chair.  His  slippers  were  under  the  bed 
which  had  been  opened  for  him,  the  silk  cover  drawn 
back  in  an  invitation  to  repose.  He  snatched  them 
out  and  dropped  his  underwear  to  the  floor.  Then 
pulling  off  his  socks,  he  marched  across  the  room  on 
bare  soles  to  the  long  mirror  that  fitted  into  the 
dark  wood  of  the  closet  door.  Why  doesn’t  she 
care  for  me  ?  Why  am  I  inadequate  ? 

From  front,  back  and  sides  he  studied  his  nudity, 


322  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

turning  in  exploration,  examining  minutely  each 
plane  and  hillock  of  flesh  and  hair.  Square 
shoulders,  a  trumped-up  chest,  a  fleshy  abdomen  like 
a  bishop’s.  No  material  here  for  a  statue.  Grisley 
arms,  too  thin  above  the  elbow.  Prominent 
shoulder  blades.  Knees  that  just  escape  knocking 
together.  Hair  even  on  my  toes.  No  wonder  she 
shrinks  from  this  pink  suit.  The  china  collector’s 
slim  waist  and  long  legs  more  to  her  liking.  She’s 
had  a  rotten  deal  artistically.  Brought  up  on  stand¬ 
ards  of  Greek  statuary,  she  shudders  away  from 
the  gross  reality.  Dreaming  of  a  modern  Apollo, 
she  was  confronted  by  hirsute  deformity.  My  God, 
I’m  repulsive.  Never  thought  of  it  before.  No 
wonder  she  makes  excuses.  I’m  just  a  hideous 
hairy  male,  desirous  of  soft  beauty  I  can’t  match 
or  deserve.  I’ve  bought  her.  In  blindness  she 
accepted  me  according  to  the  custom  of  civilization. 
Few  women  get  a  handsome  keeper.  Only  the 
glamor  of  a  great  spiritual  love  could  make  a  woman 
forget  that  odious  image  before  me.  Would  Elliot? 
Probably.  The  meaning  of  aesthetics  unknown  to 
her  primitive  simplicity.  Lucky  for  men  that  most 
women  don’t  hold  up  the  statuary  standard.  The 
practical  ideal  of  kind  heart  and  good  provider 
makes  for  happier  homes.  Made  in  a  divine  image, 
am  I?  Nothing  proves  the  fantastic  ego  of  man 
more  than  that  tenet  of  faith.  Well,  the  reflection  is 
no  less  ugly  from  long  contemplation.  Yet  it’s 
the  only  piece  of  property  I  own  in  the  world.  No 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


323 


man  can  really  own  anything  but  his  suit  of  flesh. 
I  wish  mine  had  grown  on  me  black  and  in  Africa. 

He  went  to  the  bed  and  unfolded  his  pyjamas.  A 
scientist  would  scorn  my  point  of  view  and  relegate 
all  desire  for  physical  beauty  to  the  province  of 
useless  art.  If  I  were  a  scientist  I’d  think  of  my 
body  only  as  a  collection  of  particles  of  negative 
electricity  in  motion.  I  would  be  reflecting  that  if 
they  had  fallen  into  another  rate  of  speed  I  would 
now  be  a  tree,  a  rock  or  smoke  from  a  tea-kettle. 

A  section  of  a  Sunday  newspaper  lay,  still  unread 
on  the  table.  He  carried  it  to  the  bed,  opened  it 
and  turned  on  the  reading  lamp.  His  lips  curled  in 
distaste  at  the  society  page.  Then  two  dark  eyes  of 
ink  met  his.  Sydney’s  face  with  its  delicate  nose 
and  classic  lips.  He  read  with  one  short  sweep  of 
his  eyes,  “Mr.  Sydney  Harrington,  the  well-known 
antiquarian,  returned  from  Europe  yesterday  on 
the  Mauretania,  accompanied  by - ” 

He  stared  at  the  cold  conscious  face.  Then  he 
threw  the  newspaper  to  the  floor  and,  turning, 
pressed  his  head  into  the  pillow. 


X 


A  pallid  light  filtered  into  the  court  from  heavy 
turbulent  clouds.  Spreading  down  over  stone  and 
glass  in  the  chasm  of  commerce,  it  spent  itself  above 
the  window  where  Daniel  sat,  tapping  his  pencil  on 
the  desk  and  musing,  his  eyes  upturned  to  the  gray 
oblong  of  winter  sadness.  Cold  stone  and  a  sky  as 
sodden  as  my  heart.  A  fitting  setting  for  a  bare 
life.  Never  care  for  anything  you  may  lose.  Never 
care  for  anything - 

“Is  that  all,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“I  don’t  know.  I  suppose  so.” 

Miss  Elliot  closed  her  notebook  and  pushed  back 
her  chair.  It  made  a  grating  sound  on  the  concrete 
floor,  the  usual  suggestion  of  her  departure.  But 
she  did  not  go  and  presently  Daniel  turned  to  ques¬ 
tion  her  hesitation.  She  was  looking  at  the  floor 
beyond  him,  she  saw,  and  knew  at  once  that  her  curi¬ 
osity  would  not  be  secured  by  her  pride.  He  wanted 
to  smile  in  her  interest  but  his  cheeks  were  set  and 
stiff  and  it  would  have  seemed  like  tearing  apart  a 
mould  of  plaster. 

Her  eyes  sprang  to  his  face  and  ran  over  it  in 
anxious  scrutiny.  “Are  you — going  away?” 

“No.” 

“But  your  bags  there?” 

“I’m  moving.” 

324 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


325 


“Oh.”  She  looked  down  in  a  hesitant  glance  at 
his  tapping  pencil.  “Excuse  me  for  asking.  But 
you  look  so — so - ” 

“Yes,  I  know.  I  look  like  hell.  No  sleep  last 
night.” 

Her  body  moved  toward  him  in  candid  admission 
of  interest.  “Oh,  that’s  too  bad!  Were  you  sick?” 

He  saw  from  heavy-lidded  eyes  that  she  was  melt¬ 
ing  with  sympathy.  Her  lips  were  moist  and  parted, 
her  nostrils  dilated  as  she  breathed.  Her  eyes, 
hazel  and  opened  wide,  were  shining  with  shy 
gratitude  for  his  meager  confidences.  She  wore  a 
new  pink  sweater  and  its  color  moved  up  into  her 
neck  and  cheeks.  Something  soft  and  mobile  was 
acting  in  her  face  and  its  young  contours  flowed  with 
eagerness. 

“No — not  sick.  Just — oh,  well.  It  doesn’t 
matter.”  He  went  on  staring  at  her.  “Say — what 
have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?” 

She  gave  an  embarrassed  little  laugh.  “I  guess 
you  mean  my  hair.  It’s  cut.”  She  bent  her  neck 
and  shook  out  her  hair  over  his  desk.  He  began  to 
breathe  the  faint  scent  of  roses.  Under  the  electric 
light  her  thick  hair,  separating  into  strands,  shone 
in  rich  autumnal  shades — cinnamon,  russet  and 
chestnut  brown,  fawn  color  at  the  pointed  nape 
where  the  shortest  hair  was  like  fur,  and  citron-yel¬ 
low  where  the  glints  were  brightest.  “No  more  pins 
and  nets.  My  sister  said  I  looked  like  a  school 
teacher  in  those  nets.  I  guess  I  did.”  She  put  up 


326  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

her  head  and  smiled  in  shy  triumph.  “I  didn’t 
think  you’d  notice.’'  She  patted  her  head  into  order 
and  looked  down  at  him  with  questions  in  the  back¬ 
ground  of  her  eyes. 

“I  like  it  like  that.  But  the  nets  were  better  for 
the — well,  for  my  Draconian  discipline.” 

The  telephone  rang  and  he  answered  mechanically. 

“Daniel!”  Amy’s  voice,  metallic,  uneasy,  im¬ 
plored  him,  thinly,  over  the  wires.  “The  baby  seems 
quite  ill.  I’ve  sent  for  the  doctor.  I’m — I’m  fright¬ 
ened,  Daniel.  Can  you  come?” 

His  eyes  tightened.  He  set  his  jaw.  “Didn’t  you 
understand  me  last  night  ?  I  won’t  be  back.  That’s 
final.” 

“But,  Daniel - ” 

“Goodbye.”  He  set  the  receiver  back  on  the  hook 
and  pushed  the  instrument  from  him.  Her  voice 
went  on  speaking  in  his  ear.  “I’m  frightened,  Daniel 
I’m  frightened,  Daniel.”  His  worn  face  twisted 
with  pain. 

“Oh,”  said  Miss  Elliot.  She  took  a  hesitant  step 
away  and  paused. 

Turning  his  head,  he  gave  her  his  full  gaze  for 
a  moment  and  her  young  ardent  warmth  entered 
him  painfully.  “See  here,”  he  said.  “That  was 
my  wife.  I — I’ve  left  her.” 

Miss  Elliot’s  face  paled  and  elongated,  coming 
forward  toward  his  in  the  fascination  of  astonish¬ 
ment.  Again  he  smelled  the  perfume  of  roses. 
“You’ve  left  your  wife?” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


327 


He  freed  his  muscles  abruptly  and  pushed  hard 
against  his  chair.  “Yes.  I  packed  and  left.  Noth¬ 
ing  else  to  do.  God,  there’s  a  limit  to  what  a  man 
can  stand!”  He  hunched  his  shoulders  and  pushed 
his  hands  into  his  pockets.  His  bloodshot  eyes 
touched  desk,  window,  floor,  ceiling,  and  came 
back  to  her  shocked  and  waiting  face. 

“What  did  she  do,  Mr.  Geer?” 

“Huh!  You  want  to  know  what  she  did,  eh? 
Enough.  E — nough.”  Tears  started  into  his  eyes. 
His  thin  mouth  began  to  quiver  at  the  corners. 
“Just  was  in  love  with  another  man.  That’s  all. 
I  suppose  that’s  enough.”  He  twisted  toward  her, 
snatched  a  hand  from  his  pocket  and  pulled  at  his 
necktie.  “I  thought  it  was  all  over  and  that  she’d 
forgotten  him.  Like  hell  she  had.  As  soon  as  he 
came  back  from  Paris — ”  He  sniffed  and,  putting 
out  his  hand,  shook  his  finger  at  her  across  the  edge 
of  the  desk.  “Listen.  What  do  you  think  of  this? 
She  left  her  sick  baby  and  went  out  to  meet  him !” 
He  saw  her  face  floating  and  wavering  beyond  his 
tears.  He  searched  it  with  devouring  eyes,  feeding 
upon  her  incredulous  horror.  His  chin  began  to 
shake  and  he  drew  sharp  breaths  through  his 
nostrils.  “Can’t  believe  it,  can  you?  Well,  that’s 
just  what  she  did.  When  I  got  home  last  night  she 
wasn’t  in.  No  message  left  for  me.  I  went  down  and 
waited.  You  see,  I  knew  he  was  back  in  New  York. 
One  o’clock  came.  She  drove  up  in  a  taxi.  I  asked 
her  where  she  had  been.  I  suppose  I  was  a  little 


328  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


rough  and  excited.  Guess  what  she  said  to  me — I’d 
been  waiting  an  hour  in  the  cold.  Of  course,  you 
don’t  know  how  she  talks.  ‘Daniel,  please  wait 
until  we  get  into  the  house.  And  do  pay  my  taxi. 
I’ve  lost  my  purse.’  How’s  that  for  nerve !  Coming 
home  from  him!  Well,  I  followed  her  in  and  she 
gave  me  a  preposterous  story  about  having  seen  a 
woman  friend — you  wouldn’t  have  offered  such  a  lie 
to  a  child.  I  told  her — well,  what  I  thought  of  her 
and  packed  my  bags.  She  can  go  to  him  now.  I’m 
through!”  He  clamped  his  hand  on  the  edge  of 
the  desk  and  pulled  himself  forward  on  his  chair. 
He  set  his  teeth  into  his  lower  lip,  then  after  a  pause 
burst  out.  “I  got  all  I  can  stand.  I  got  a  belly  full 
when  I  married  her.  Cold-blooded  leech,  that’s  all 
she  is.  I  never  was  handsome  like — some  other  men. 
She  knew  she  wasn’t  getting  an  Adonis.  She  took 
me  for  a  meal  ticket.  Well,  that’s  what  I’ve  been 
for  her.”  He  sneered  with  a  trembling  mouth  and 
thumped  the  desk  with  his  fist.  “Just  a  boob — and 
everybody  knows  it.” 

Miss  Elliot  bent  over  him  and  placed  a  hot 
hand  on  his  knuckles.  “No,  you’re  not.  You’re 
wonderful.  Everyone  here  thinks  you’re  wonder¬ 
ful.” 

He  sneered  again.  “A  lot  they  know  about  me !” 
He  drew  his  hand  from  under  hers  and  placed  her 
fingers  lightly  on  his  palm.  “Only  you,  Miss — ” 
He  glanced  up.  “Curious.  I  don’t  know  your  first 
name.” 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


329 


“It’s  Rose.”  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  She 
left  her  hand  in  his  and  he  felt  her  fingers  vibrating 
against  his  palm. 

“That’s  why  you  always  smell  of  roses.  You’re 
very  sweet,  Rose.  I  depend  on  you  somehow.  Do 
you  remember  the  night  I  asked  you  to  have  dinner  ? 
You  were  angry  with  me  for  a  long  time.” 

She  met  his  eyes  in  a  direct  child-like  confidence. 
“Oh,  yes.  I  cried  all  night — often  I  did.” 

“I’m  sorry.”  He  carried  her  hand  to  his  cheek, 
“Forgive  me.  I’ve  thought  always  of  my  own 
troubles.  I’ve  been  selfish.  I  don’t  dare  ask  you 
again,  do  I?  You  might  say  no.” 

Pressing  his  palm  with  her  finger-tips,  she  gave 
him  a  swift  glance  of  reassurance.  “Oh,  I’d  never 
say  no  to  you — no  matter  what  you  asked  me!”  she 
cried.  Her  eyes  glinted,  glad  and  wet,  and  excited 
blood  flashed  up  in  her  cheeks.  She  bent  her  head. 

The  telephone  rang  again.  As  he  lifted  the 
receiver,  Miss  Elliot  clutched  his  shoulder  and  put 
her  face  to  his.  She  kissed  him — a  hard  kiss  of 
hope  long  repressed,  now  ready  again  to  leap  out  in 
expectations. 

He  caught  her  about  the  waist.  “Rose — I — ”  She 
twisted  away  and  ran  to  the  door.  Half  smiling, 
he  turned  to  the  telephone.  “Yes?” 

The  operator  spoke.  “Miss  Corning  on  the  wire.” 

“No.”  He  clipped  back  the  receiver.  I  know 
what  she  wants.  I’ll  have  no  intermediaries.  The 
sooner  it’s  all  rooted  up,  the  better.  I’ve  been  a 


330 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


weakling  long  enough.  I  can’t  live  on,  tortured  by 
superiority  and  deceptions.  Rose  is  the  girl  for  me. 
My  God,  I’ll  divorce  Amy  and  marry  little  Rose.  A 
sweet,  comforting  Rose  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  She 
doesn’t  excite  me  or  stir  my  imagination.  No 
gimbal  for  the  emotions  needed  with  her.  Balm  and 
comfort.  Something  within  my  reach  this  time. 
I’ll  be  happier  that  way.  She’ll  look  up  to  me  and 
admire  in  me  the  things  that  Amy  despises.  I  must 
have  acted  like  a  madman  last  night.  Everything 
poisonous  spurted  out  of  me.  Poor  mother  outside 
the  door  in  terror.  I  might  have  strangled  her  if 
mother  hadn’t  been  there.  Her  throat,  choked  with 
lies,  tempted  my  hands.  “I  haven’t  seen  him, 
Daniel !”  Liar !  She  was  hot  from  his  arms.  Her 
mouth  was  swollen  from  his  kisses.  I’ve  paid  well 
for  every  kiss  she  ever  gave  me,  damn  her ! 

He  jerked  out  a  drawer  of  the  desk.  On  the  top 
of  some  papers  lay  Amy’s  photograph.  He  held 
it  up  to  the  light  and  gazed  with  eyes  of  stone. 
The  uxorial  Mona  Lisa.  Her  lips  curl  about  the 
secretive  wraiths  of  her  thoughts.  Her  eyes  hold 
the  shadows  of  the  nets  she  has  cast.  A  slimy  soul, 
bent  on  a  mastic  festival,  ravenous,  inexorable. 
Hell.  She  doesn’t  merit  such  highfalutin  treatment. 
She’s  just  an  up-to-date  cheat — a  prostitute  walking 
her  beat  under  the  protection  of  marriage. 

Holding  the  picture  firmly  between  palms  and 
finger-tips,  he  tore  it  across  and  dropped  the  two 
parts  into  the  basket  at  his  feet. 


XI 


He  was  deep  in  the  daily  conference  with  Trainer 
when  an  office  boy  brought  in  Miss  Coming’s  card, 
enclosed  in  an  envelope.  Across  her  name  was  writ¬ 
ten,  “I  must  see  you.  If  you  are  not  free,  I  shall 
wait.  The  baby  died  an  hour  ago  and  Amy  is 
prostrated.” 

He  read  this  twice  and  turned  weakly  to  Trainer. 
“Finish  up  outside,  will  you?  I’ll  see  you  before  you 
go  to  dinner.” 

Trainer  gathered  up  papers  and  clippings,  his 
eyebrows  two  black  arcs.  “Well,  now,  about  that 
cartoon - ” 

“Yes,  I  guess  so.”  Daniel’s  eyes,  dull  and  empty, 
passed  over  Trainer’s  coatless  shoulders  and  jutting 
paunch.  Trainer  shook  a  puzzled  head  and  went 
away,  plump  and  ambling. 

Miss  Corning  marched  in  as  stiff  as  a  marionette. 
Daniel  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  bowed.  He  pulled 
back  the  chair  Trainer  had  occupied  and  waited 
until  she  sat  down  in  it.  Then  he  slumped  into  his 
own  and  averted  his  vacant  pale  face. 

Sitting  stiffly  upright,  she  began  speaking  at  once, 
somewhat  quickly  and  in  a  formal  tone.  “Please 
don’t  tell  me  your  side.  I  know  it  already.  What 


33i 


332 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


you  must  know  is  that  she  told  you  the  truth  about 
last  night.  She  was  with  me.  You  were  wrong.” 

He  looked  up  slowly  with  the  shadow  of  a  sneer. 
“Oh,  yes.  I’m  always  wrong.  She  always  puts 
me  in  the  wrong.  But  I  know  I’m  right.  I  know 
she’s  in  love  with  Harrington.  Well,”  he  added, 
his  voice  rising,  “She  can  have  him  now !” 

Her  expression  remained  impersonal.  In  the  dry 
explanatory  voice  of  the  lecture  platform  she  went 
on.  “She  was.  But  not  now.  She  hasn’t  seen  him. 
She  has  no  idea  of  seeing  him.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  goes  to  China  next  week  with  his  wife  for 
a  year’s  trip.”  She  waited,  studying  him  with 
friendly  determined  eyes.  “You  know,  I’m  very 
fond  of  Amy.  I  want  her  happiness.  And  I  think 
you  can  make  her  happy.” 

Daniel,  crumpled  in  his  chair,  gazed  at  her  with 
eyes  that  were  suspicious  and  filled  with  memories 
of  his  pain.  “She’s  treated  me  shamefully.  She’s 
cheated  me.  And  yet  for  nearly  a  year  I’ve  been  a 
slave  to  her.  I  can’t  stand  any  more,  Miss  Corning.” 

She  leaned  toward  him  and  put  her  narrow  hand 
on  his  arm.  “She  needs  you,  Daniel  Geer.  She  sent 
me  to  tell  you  she  wants  you  to  come  home.  She’s 
lying  on  her  bed  with  the  baby,  kissing  its  hands 
and  crying  desperately.  The  last  thing  she  said  to 
me  was  ‘Elizabeth,  I  want  Daniel.  Please  ask 
him  to  come  home.’  ” 

His  face  contracted  as  his  heart  began  to  jump 
in  hot  spurts.  At  her  words,  “I  want  Daniel,”  he 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


333 


had  felt  suddenly  rent — as  if  his  vitals  had  been 
pushed  aside  until  his  ribs  had  cracked  apart.  Then 
the  joy  went  out  of  his  eyes  and  they  drooped, 
again  apathetic  as  his  reason  gibed.  Only  a  tale  to 
fetch  me  back.  Why  should  she  turn  to  me  ?  She 
doesn’t  love  me.  I’m  only  a  stop-gap.  She  hasn’t 
anyone  else.  Grief  may  perform  miracles  but  not 
that  of  her  loving  me.  Impossible.  Yet  last  night 
she  denied  with  tears.  For  the  first  time  she  cared 
enough  to  deny  an  accusation.  My  injustice  drove 
her  into  speech.  Under  other  charges  she  has  always 
wilted  into  silence.  They  were  the  true  ones,  be¬ 
longing  to  Harrington’s  time.  Now  that  she’s 
forgotten  him,  I  have  the  power  to  flick  her.  The 
beginning  perhaps.  But  a  beginning  begun  too  late. 
I  see  her  now  too  clearly  to  go  back.  Disillusion  is 
no  flavoring  for  love.  It  makes  of  marriage  an 
uncertain  feast.  And  that  little  barrier  of  flesh,  now 
dead,  of  which  I  should  always  think  with  a  question 
for  her,  “Mine  or  his?” 

He  raised  a  devastated  face.  “Tell  her  I  can’t, 
Miss  Corning.  I’m  disillusioned.  I  realize  she 
could  never  care  for  me.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  bright  penetrating  eyes. 
“There’s  no  one  but  you  in  her  life,  Daniel.  Come 
back  with  me  now  and  see  how  she’ll  cling  to  you !” 

Again  his  heart  leaped  as  he  received  the  picture 
of  a  soft  and  clinging  Amy,  drenched  in  grief, 
changed  by  misfortune.  My  longing  for  her  rises 
in  me  as  strong  as  a  tower  and  is  the  core  of  my 


334 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


body.  I  feel  pangs  of  pity  for  her  motherhood  and 
am  beaten  with  the  demands  of  a  love  that  has  never 
been  satisfied  or  killed.  A  clinging  Amy.  A  new 
soft  Amy  who  has  turned  to  me  in  her  despair  and 
even  now  is  waiting  for  the  door  to  open.  For  the 
first  time,  she  is  watching  for  my  coming.  I  feel 
already  her  long  white  hands  about  my  neck.  I 
see  the  finely-drawn  red,  red  mouth,  bitter  with 
tears,  hoping  for  my  comfort.  Her  eyes  will  not 
drop  away  from  mine  in  preoccupation,  the  child 
needing  her  no  longer.  Her  loss  is  my  golden  gain. 
Her  grief  is  a  gift  to  me.  Its  death  might  make 
it  possible  for  us  to  start  again.  No.  That  is  only 
weak  complaisance.  What  a  weakling  I  am ! 
Can’t  fight  free  of  a  woman  who  has  deceived  me. 
I’ll  tell  her  no  once  and  for  all ! 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  glared  at  Miss  Corning. 
She  had  turned  her  head  and  was  dreaming  out  of 
the  window,  her  face  pinched  and  sad,  her  sensitive 
mouth  telling  of  a  life  of  mental  pleasures  and  stern 
denials  of  the  flesh.  She  doesn’t  understand  my 
emotions.  They  are  like  theorems  to  her.  Can’t 
discuss  my  future  with  her.  What  will  a  future  be 
without  Amy — with  only  a  sentimental  Rose  for 
my  buttonhole?  The  years  roll  on  before  me  like 
a  strip  of  carpet,  dull  and  dusty.  Stupid  hours  of 
being  worshipped  and  bored — perhaps  cooked  for 
and  mended  for  in  a  cloud  of  the  incense  I  have 
always  burned  to  Amy.  I  should  sit  in  superiority 
like  the  traditional  husband  while  my  wife  busied 


THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 


335 


herself  for  me  with  a  sweet  eager  face.  And  all 
the  time  I  should  be  brooding  over  Amy’s  delicate 
lost  subtleties — her  charming  sophistication — her 
cultured  speech  and  background.  I  should  be  re¬ 
membering  the  delicious  fripperies  that  surround 
her,  the  perfumed  and  mysterious  cult  of  chiffon 
and  silk.  Well,  her  garments  smell  as  sweet  and 
feel  as  soft  to  a  disillusioned  man  as  to  the  confident 
fool  I  was. 

Miss  Corning  moved  in  her  chair.  “ You’d  better 
decide  to  come  with  me,”  she  said.  “For  your  own 
happiness — and  Amy’s.  She’s  waiting  for  you.” 

He  met  her  eyes.  Amy  is  waiting.  Amy  is  wait¬ 
ing.  Perhaps  not  with  love.  But  with  helplessness, 
remorse  and  gratitude  for  my  coming.  One  thing 
is  sure,  by  God !  I’ll  know  the  next  baby  is  mine ! 

“Well?”  Miss  Corning  smiled  at  him — a  tight 
dry  spinster  smile.  “Good.  I  have  the  car  down 
stairs.” 

He  got  up,  his  blood  tumbling  and  rushing.  It 
tingled  on  all  the  surfaces  of  his  body.  He  put  on 
his  overcoat  and  flung  his  scarf  about  his  neck. 
They  walked  out  of  his  office  and  through  the  city 
room  to  the  outer  door. 

Miss  Elliot  was  coming  in.  With  an  intimate 
shy  glance  she  stopped  in  front  of  him.  He  drew 
a  long  breath.  The  violent  smell  of  fresh  ink  came  to 
him,  rising  up  hot  from  the  steps  to  the  composing 
room  and  mingling  with  the  odor  of  roses  from  her 
hair.  What  an  escape !  Just  a  pretty  shallow  girl 


336  THE  UNCERTAIN  FEAST 

whose  mind  is  filled  with  sentimental  nonsense.  I 
must  have  been  deranged,  thinking  I  could  live 
with  her.  It’s  Amy  I  want,  the  beautiful  and  in¬ 
tangible. 

“I’ll  leave  your  letters  on  your  desk,”  Miss  Elliot 
said.  Her  voice  was  soft  and  her  mouth  swelled 
out  at  him. 

He  returned  her  look  with  indifference,  his 
thoughts  already  leaping  ahead  to  the  long  ride  home 
through  traffic-heavy  streets,  upon  which  he  would 
look  out,  thinking  how  in  spite  of  disenchantment 
he  must  go  on  to  the  uncertain  feast,  sad  and  happy, 
triumphant  and  beaten. 

“Never  mind  them,  Miss  Elliot.  I  shan’t  be  back 
tonight.” 

He  watched  her  eyes  spring  wide,  dismayed  and 
filled  with  fear.  He  swung  on,  then,  hurrying  to 
catch  up  with  Miss  Corning,  already  on  her  way 
down  the  long  corridor. 

THE  END 


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